I Doubt If Anyone Would Know
by TruthxLiesxMagic
Summary: AU. Nellie Lovett is transported for knifing her husband in self-defence. Now she has returned ten years later to find that London isn't the way she left it – and that one barber in particular is in need of help. On hold for major revision.
1. Prologue: Moonlight On The Decks

**I Doubt If Anyone Would Know**

Summary: AU. Nellie Lovett is transported for knifing her husband in self-defence. Now she has returned ten years later to find that London isn't the way she left it – and that one barber in particular is in need of help.

A/N: Yes, I must be crazy for starting a new series, but I had this plotbunny and it's gnawing my foot off trying to be written. Also, I kinda wanted to get this up before anyone else had the same idea, if they haven't already. Probably someonehas done this before, but oh well. There will be several key AU points to this fic. One: Nellie being transported happens five years later than Benjamin would have been, so she's been away for ten years not fifteen. Two: Lucy is dead. As a doornail. How and why will become clear, but she is most definately dead. Three: The plotline will essentially be similar to the original universe, but obviously AU's have to differ somewhere, as this will. So, for instance, Benjamin will still become Sweeney, but under different circumstances, and he's obviously not going to be so 'kill-kill-kill', and even though Nellie will still be kind at heart, it's buried pretty deeply and only shows through once in a while.

* * *

**Prologue – Moonlight On The Decks**

**OoOoOoOoO**

As salty sea air streamed over the darkened decks on the _Bountiful_, only two figures stood upon them, the reason being that the hour was late, and the wind bitingly chilly. One of the figures, a woman of around thirty years, probably a little more, stood looking out over the opaque black water sloshing against the ship's hull, stray auburn hairs captured and toyed with by the breeze. Yet the woman did not seem to notice the chill, for she had neither a shawl nor a coat around her shoulders – just a simple dress, worn from work, and ragged along the hem. She was humming to herself, the tune so quiet that it was all but lost in the wind, tapping her fingers.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-tap._

The other figure on the deck was a young, naïve sailor by the name of Anthony Hope. He was just past seventeen, a man in some ways, but still an innocent boy in so many others. Hesitantly, he approached the woman stood by the deck without the slightest shiver, though Anthony himself had his jacket held to him tightly. He had learnt little of Susan Linnet, except that she hailed from London originally, and – as far as he could tell – once had a thriving meat pie business. Yet, on the rare occasions Mrs Linnet had spoken of her past in the weeks since Anthony had spotted her adrift on the ocean, the young sailor had noted that a tussle of emotions sparked momentarily in her dark brown eyes. It was so brief that Anthony couldn't register them all by any means, but he definitely identified sadness, and anger.

Yes, Mrs Linnet was mysterious, all right, but in some ways she reminded Anthony of his own deceased mother. The way she would purse her lips sometimes, the way she'd put her hands on her hips and _glared_ when one of the other – more foolish – sailors had commented about the bad luck a woman brought to a ship.

So Anthony had, in a way, attached himself to the strange woman, some deep instinct telling him that she needed a companion. And even though the same instinct told him that Mrs Linnet had someone in mind she'd rather talk to, she seemed happy enough at times to converse with him. It was this fact, this feeling of protectiveness almost – even though Anthony had already seen that she was more than capable of taking care of herself – that drove the sailor boy to take a coat to the woman.

"Mrs Linnet?" He spoke softly; almost unwilling to break the trance she seemed to be in. His mind automatically filled in the words to the song she was humming. It was a melancholy tune, haunting, like a nursery rhyme sung out of place, thus being twisted into something disturbingly unfamiliar.

_Down by Fleet Street_

_Up by the market_

_I've got sixpence_

_Sixpence to spend_

_Should I buy a linnet bird?_

_Or perhaps some lemon curd?_

_Should I buy some toffee?_

_For my friends and me?_

_Should I buy a meat pie?_

_The best I've had, no lie?_

_Or should I save it for a day?_

_A day for when it's needed, say?_

When he got no response, Anthony dithered as to whether or not he felt bold enough to rouse Mrs Linnet. But as soon as he had made the choice to leave her be – not through cowardice, per say, but thanks to a choice memory of an event that somehow hadn't seemed to reach the eyes and ears of the captain – the woman blinked several times and turned towards him.

"Anthony." She stated blankly, and then… she didn't smile – Anthony had yet to see her actually _smile_ – but her features seemed to warm. "Supper up in the galley already?"

"No, Ma'am." Anthony hesitated. "Um, supper was several hours ago. It's almost midnight, Ma'am."

"Oh." Mrs Linnet cast her eyes towards the moon – a full one, colouring the decks a ghostly silver. "So late already?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

Mrs Linnet lapsed into silence, and Anthony couldn't think of anything to say to pierce the sudden silence. No, he corrected himself, not silence – there was still the comforting creak of the ship, the soft, silky sound of wind filling the sails, and the gentle, constant slapping of waves against the hull. Yet these sounds were so quiet they seemed to be barely there. Surely, the only time one heard them properly was at a time like this, in the dead of night.

"We'll be nearin' London roundabout now, won't we?"

The question, spoken in normal tones, made Anthony jump slightly, the volume so different from the subtlety of the environment that it seemed louder than it should.

"Yes, London should be in sight by tomorrow night." Anthony confirmed. "Perhaps sooner, if this favourable wind stays with us. We should dock by the day after, with any luck."

Mrs Linnet nodded, taking this in, and the words she whispered next seemed to be directed at herself more than Anthony.

"Be back soon then. Back at long last. Too bad I'm alone."

Anthony cleared his throat quietly, feeling as though he was witnessing something private, and gestured to the jacket thrown over his arm.

"Well, I just came to bring you this, Mrs Linnet. Thought you'd perhaps have a chill by now."

The woman looked at him, something akin to surprise in her eyes. This was another thing that triggered Anthony's interest. No matter how many small kindnesses or favours he and various other crewmembers showed Mrs Linnet, she always seemed surprised that they'd bothered. He was curious as to what prompted this reaction, though he would never ask. After a moment, Mrs Linnet nodded and took the proffered item of clothing, slipping it around her slim shoulders.

"Thank you, lad." She said softly, her gaze drifting once again towards the sea –or, perhaps, the horizon, where London was approaching – her pale skin seeming to glow almost in the moonlight. She seemed to deliberate something before speaking. "Anthony, why d'you care?"

"Pardon?" Whatever Anthony had been expecting, this was not it. Was this a trick question, designed to catch him out? If so, why?

"Why did you point me out when you saw me?" Mrs Linnet continued, not meeting his eye. "Why d'you keep doin' me favours? I've nothin' to give you in return."

Comprehension dawned, like a ray of enlightenment. This wasn't a trick, or a ruse. This was simply a lone woman wondering how she would pay back her rescuer. Anthony felt a wave of relief crash over him, and he almost tripped over his words in his haste to assure Mrs Linnet he had no intention of seeking repayment of any sort.

"Is this not what any good Christian would do, Ma'am?" He asked with a small smile, the expression faltering in his companion's snort at his words.

"There's many a good Christian would 'ave let a body drown afore puttin' 'emselves out." Mrs Linnet remarked. "So I'll ask again: why?"

Anthony was an honest lad, and so even though it briefly crossed his mind to lie, he shoved the thought away. Mrs Linnet, he felt, deserved his honesty. So, blushing, and avoiding the woman's eye, he muttered his response.

"Well, Ma'am, it's just… you remind me of my mother some."

He didn't know what to expect next, but he certainly had no inkling that Mrs Linnet would do what she did.

"Look at me, Anthony." She said softly, and when Anthony rose his eyes, he saw an expression of tenderness, almost on the woman's features. Gently, she reached out and held his chin, turning his face one way, and then the other, examining it in the moonlight. Finally, she let go and sighed.

"Funny thing, that." She remarked. "You make me think o' 'ow me boy would'a turned out."

Silence stretched between them, and Anthony thought he might burst with questions. Eventually, Mrs Linnet spoke in a voice so quiet, it was all but lost in the wind.

"Anthony… I'd appreciate it if you left me to me thoughts."

"Of course, Ma'am." Anthony backed away quietly, his thoughts all concerning the mysterious woman he was leaving on the deck. As he walked away, the sound of tapping, which had stopped whilst they conversed, began again, echoing around the deck.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-tap._

A/N: Well, what do you think? Review please, or else I'm going to assume nobody likes this and it will be deleted. So if you read this and enjoyed it, click on the little blue button that says 'Submit Review'. Reviewers also get an Easter egg of their choice xD

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	2. Chapter 1 There Was A Baker And A Barber

A/N: Chapter 1 is here for your reading pleasure! Thanks for all the reviews, everyone, I really didn't think I'd get that much of a response. It made me very happy, and when I'm happy I write faster.

Oh, and also, a big thank-you to pinkeop for correcting me on the lyrics for Anthony's little song D

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**Chapter 1 – There Was A Baker And A Barber**

**OoOoOoOoO**

As the _Bountiful_ streamed down the Thames to dock, Anthony once again found himself on the deck beside Mrs Linnet, though the difference this time was that so were many others. However, the two were still all but alone up by the prow. Anthony himself could hardly hold back a grin at the thought of returning to London after such a long voyage, and suddenly a short ditty one of the more literarily gifted sailors had come up with came to him.

_"I have seen the world,_

_Beheld its wonders_

_From the dardanelles_

_To the mountains of Peru_

_But there's no place like London."_

"No, there's no place like London." Mrs Linnet's voice sounded strongly beside him, filled with scorn. Anthony started slightly – he had not exchanged many words with the woman since she had told him he reminded her of her son – and wondered just why it was Mrs Linnet seemed to intend to stay in London when she obviously held it in such low esteem.

"Mrs Linnet, might I ask why you dislike London so? Surely it is a place of opportunity?" He asked, his voice not as strong as he would have liked. Mrs Linnet flicked a few stray curls off her face and for a moment Anthony was sure she was not going to answer, but answer she did.

_"There's a 'ole in the world like a great black pit, an' the vermin o' the world inhabit it, an' its morals ain't worth what a pig could spit, an' it goes by the name o' London."_ She sang softly. _"At the top o' the 'ole sit a privileged few, makin' mock o' the vermin in the lower zoo, turnin' beauty into filth an' pain… I've not seen the world, ain't beheld its wonders, but the cruelty o' men mus' rival the wonder o' Peru." _A sigh. _"An' there's no place like London…"_

Silence created a chasm between the two, as Anthony tried to digest what Mrs Linnet was saying. Surely London wasn't as bad as all that? If it was, why would people flock to it as they did? When he voiced these opinions, Mrs Linnet gave a small laugh, though the sound was entirely devoid of any humour.

"Aye, that's the case for fops, but when you're in the slums, it's rather more o' a struggle t' make ends meet."

"But surely a small area can't spoil the whole city." Anthony objected. "True, the fact that some are in poverty is sad, but surely many more are comfortable?"

Mrs Linnet eyes him for a long moment, evidently amused.

"You really don't 'ave any idea what London's like, do you?" It wasn't really a question. The woman smirked humourlessly. "The slums make up more o' London than you'd think. Oh, there're the fancy streets, an' the parks – prob'ly what you're thinking o' – but for the rest…" Mrs Linnet shook her head. "Filth. Pain. Hunger. When you're in tha' position… death's a relief."

Anthony knew his eyes were wide, and that he more than likely looked extremely foolish, but he couldn't help it. The picture of London painted by Mrs Linnet's words was a far cry from the image he'd imagined. He'd known there would be slums and poverty – he wasn't _that_ naïve – but if things were that bad… The sailor suppressed a shiver. London suddenly looked a lot less inviting.

"It seems I have a lot to learn of London." Anthony muttered to himself. Mrs Linnet shrugged.

"You will. But don't be ashamed – you're young, life 'as been kind to you."

Anthony would have responded, but one of the sailors called over to them.

"Oi, you two! Get off, ev'ryone else 'as!"

"Charmin'!" Mrs Linnet muttered, as the two of them glanced around to see that the Bountiful had docked whilst they had been talking, and that everyone else had indeed left the vessel. "We'd best get goin' 'fore 'e 'as an 'eart attack."

Anthony grinned, and the two left the boat quickly, Anthony throwing one last look around the place he'd spent such a long voyage before shrugging his bag more securely onto his shoulder and returning to dry land. As always, the ground seemed strange to walk on after so long on a rocking boat, but Anthony knew from experience that this would disappear soon enough. The streets were dimly lit, and shadows concealed everything outside the small rings of light the street lamps emitted. The streets were indeed dirty, and the houses likewise, some looking ready to fall down.

"No place like London." Mrs Linnet muttered beside him, her tone almost amused. "Well, this's where we part. Thank you for ev'rythin', Anthony."

"Wait." Anthony was suddenly spurred to ask the question he'd longed to during the entire voyage. "Might I ask you something Mrs Linnet?"

The redhead considered for a moment, and then nodded once. Anthony, relieved that she hadn't taken offence, rushed on.

"Well, I was just wondering if you had any family to go back to, or friends. You never spoke of any, but…" Anthony trailed off, shook his head, and then continued. "I mean no offence, but London seems a dangerous place for a lone woman, Ma'am."

Anthony mentally kicked himself in the silence that followed his words, certain that he had offended Mrs Linnet, and shakily met her eyes, where he thought for a split-second he saw a slight glimmer, but then it was gone. The redhead sniffed, and finally answered.

"I 'ad one real friend. Jus' the one. But I've been gone ten years, 'e's forgotten me, mos' likely. I s'pose I could tell you. Guess I owe you. But then I 'ave to go… Go an' see if a place is 'ow I remember it." Mrs Linnet paused, and then began to sing softly almost to herself rather than for Anthony's benefit.

_"There was a baker an' a barber_

_An' 'e was beautiful_

_A foolish baker an' 'er barber_

_'E was 'er reason an' 'er life_

_An' 'e was virtuous_

_An' she was naïve…_

_There was another girl who saw_

_Tha' 'e was beautiful_

_The mos' pious lady o' 'em all_

_Who with a few words from 'er maw _

_Removed the baker from 'er plate…"_

_

* * *

_

"Then there was nothing but to wait

_And she would fall_

_So soft_

_So young_

_So lost_

_And oh, so beautiful…"_

The dark-haired man trailed off, and drank from the tankard in front of him, his brown eyes, which had once sparkled with joy and warmth, were dark, lost in memories. His pale skin was a sharp contrast to his dark brown, almost black hair, and the dark circled beneath his eyes. His face was gaunt, speaking a tale of too little food and too much work, but despite all this, it was obvious that he had once been – and still was – very handsome. Beautiful, even.

"So what 'appened?" His companion questioned, her face in shadows, thanks to the low lighting of the inn, but the light did reveal the colour of her hair, more or less, the dark auburn curls surrounding her face messily. "To the baker? What was 'er name, anyway?"

"If you'd let me finish…" He growled, and then continued, inwardly smirking. "And it was Eleanor. Eleanor Lovett. They transported her for life." The man glanced away, pain flashing across his face for a moment. The woman froze, and then relaxed again, and even though her face was shadowed, somehow it was obvious that she was smirking.

"An' 'er crime?"

"Wait and see."

_"There was her man, y'see_

_He made her his slave_

_Gotta hand it to her, the flower_

_Never did she cry or she cower_

_Poor thing_

_Ah but there was worse yet to come_

_Poor thing_

_Well her Albert shouts at her all absurd_

_Poor thing_

_Poor thing_

_He claims she's never a grateful word_

_He blames her for his sickened plight_

_She must stop moaning or leave tonight_

_Poor thing_

_Poor thing_

_Of course when she reasons_

_Poor thing_

_Poor thing_

_She finds out he's drunk as can be_

_There's no one to help her_

_Poor dear_

_Poor thing_

_She's alone, unable_

_To move_

_Poor thing_

_Ah, but there's a knife on the table_

_Poor thing_

_"Oh I'll 'ave to do it." She says_

_She got him, for sure_

_Right in his gut so poor_

_Ah the butcher's no match for her y'see_

_Least not when her life's on the line_

_She figures, he's gotta be dead, y'see_

_So she did what had to be done, y'see_

_Poor soul_

_Poor thing…"_

The man let his voice die, as a small chuckle escaped his companion. She tossed a few curls out of her face, and leaned forwards, her face lit by the lamps, every feature thrown into sharp relief, especially the snarl she was barely holding back. He smirked back at her.

"Was there no mercy for 'er? Sounds like 'e would'a killed 'er, given 'alf a chance." She remarked.

"Any other judge would have." He replied. "Only she got Judge Turpin… but then you know that, don't you? Shall we drop the pretences?"

A pregnant silence grew between them, and then gave birth to several more. It was almost a minute before she spoke, but when she did, Eleanor Lovett's eyes were filled with such a level of anger it seemed that she would attack him.

"So…" She breathed. "Make a livin' out o' this, Mr Barker? I went by the shop, an' I notice it's closed. So's _this_ what you do nowadays? Tell me tale to ev'ry poor sod you share a table with?"

"My dear." Benjamin breathed, not put out in the least by her expression. "I knew it was you the moment you sat down." He attempted a real smile, the first he'd given to anyone in a long time. "You still tap on tables. That same tune, too."

Their gazes clashed, Benjamin's expression one of calm neutrality, though inside he was both overjoyed to see his friend again – his beautiful, lively Nellie – and afraid of how much she'd changed. Nellie's own expression was a conflict of emotions. Benjamin recalled that she'd always been like that – she'd be happy on the surface for so long, until she just burst from all the other emotions she was keeping back. This seemed to be one of those times. He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even more dishevelled than before.

"Nellie-" He began, but she cut him off.

"No. Not Nellie anymore." She raised an eyebrow at his confused expression. "Well, I 'ardly need anyone alertin' the police an' bein' shipped back off to Devil's Isle, now, do I?"

Benjamin nodded. It made sense.

"Fine. I don't care. I… You're back." That smile, again. Not a single one for eight years, and now two in the same night, the same hour. "You're back." He repeated softly. "You're really back."

"Yeah." Nellie smiled at him, her face twitching awkwardly, as if she'd all but forgotten how to. "I am. But-"

Benjamin waved a hand, stopping her words.

"No buts. Come back to the shop with me." He recognised, but was not surprised by, the note of pleading in his voice. Nellie softened, an agonised look on her face.

"All right." She sighed eventually, the words quiet. "But I'm not 'er, Benjamin. I'm not Nellie anymore."

Benjamin really looked into her eyes, and felt a strange emotion rise up in him at the sight of so much sadness, so much self-hate, residing in one person. The only word for it was wretched.

_Let me heal you._ He wanted to say. _God, Nellie, let me help you, let me bring you back._

But he didn't. Because he knew she _wouldn't_ let him. At least not yet.

* * *

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	3. Chapter 2: What's Dead Is Dead

A/N: Oh God, sorry, sorry, SORRY this is so late comign out! I swear I was going to update sooner, but I had an epiphany, and I spent a couple of days writing the ending. Yes, I know EXACTLY how this is going to end. -Rubs hands together- So, we find out what happened to cause Benjamin to be in that inn. I hope this chapter isn't too crappy, my muses decided to pack in half way through. -headdesk-

And THANK YOU for the reviews, everyone! I really didn't expect to get so much feedback on this fic. And I'm goign to go back and fix a few things in Chapter 1 to make the scene change clearer too, since a lot of peopel commented on that. I just realise dI forgot to put a line break in there, which is probably why it was confusing -facepalm-

* * *

**Chapter 2 – What's Dead Is Dead**

**OoOoOoOoO**

Outside, dawn was just beginning to skim over the darkened streets of London, making dark corners visible, and treating the two friends to a view of the sunrise. However, neither cared to watch it, both having issues of greater importance on their minds than the simple beauty of the sun rising. Susan's eyes darted everywhere, remembering all too well how bold the muggers and cutpurses were. Benjamin seemed to read her mind – he always had been good at that – and moved a tad closer to her. For an awkward moment, Susan wondered if he was going to put an arm around her, but thankfully he didn't, and she sighed inwardly in relief. It would be hard enough explaining everything to him – including why they could no longer correspond in any way – without him feeling that their friendship was just as strong as it had been ten years ago. So they simply walked back towards Fleet Street, which wasn't far away, and Susan wondered if she should ask the question burning on the tip of her tongue, or wait until they got back to the shop and hope Benjamin explained on his own. For the Benjamin Barker she – no, the Benjamin Barker Nellie knew – wouldn't have been in an inn drinking until dawn. Though perhaps it hadn't been all night, for his step was sure, and he didn't look drunk, nor could she smell the alcohol on him.

By the time all these thoughts had run through Susan's mind, they had arrived back at the shop, causing all curiosity to flee her mind for a moment, leaving a total blankness. She had seen the shop, of course when she'd gone by before searching for Benjamin in the inns, but the darkness had hidden a lot from her vision. Now, everything was mercilessly visible. The sign on the front of her pie shop was worn, practically unreadable, and weathered greatly by rain. The windows were thick with dirt, and from what she could see of the interior through them, dust covered everything thickly, the sight reminding Susan of a fresh snowfall.

It was a place that hadn't been entered for ten years.

Susan felt Benjamin squeeze her hand gently, but didn't try to pull away, her gaze now drifting to the barber shop above. It was in a similar state of decay, the sign also warped from weathering, and nigh unreadable, the paint peeling away, excepting what looked like a 'B'. Confusion enveloped Susan like a blanket, and she mutely turned to Benjamin, whose expression was both grave and melancholy.

"I haven't been inside for years." He remarked, and then a humourless smile played about his lips. "But then, neither has anyone else."

"Then where…?"

"I have a room above the inn." Benjamin explained. "I pay a low rent, help in the bar in the day, and then get a free drink or two at night."

Susan shook her head jerkily, her brain rejecting this new information, producing mages of Lucy, dear, innocent Lucy, she who shied away from rudeness like the plague, and shrieked like a siren should a mouse dare cross her path. And what of dear, sweet Johanna, a miniature of her dear mother? An inn was no place for a child – well, Susan reflected, she would be closer to fifteen by now, or was it sixteen? – and Lucy would not have allowed her daughter to grow up in a place where she might – Heaven forbid! – learn a curse. Beside her, Benjamin sighed, probably having picked up on her trail of thought.

"I…" he began, faltered, and then started again. "Come on, I believe I have a lot to explain."

"Damn right." Susan muttered, following her old friend into the meat pie shop. To her slight surprise, the door wasn't locked, but then again, who would want to break in?

Inside, the shop was a sorry sight. Dust covered everything thickly, and there was a melancholy feel to the air, as if even now en echo of that deed hung heavily in the air, darkening the mood of anyone who entered. Susan noted that everything was just as she'd left it – the cloth abandoned on the side, the window opened slightly to let in the summer breeze, the dishes stacked beside the sink. Beating down an odd nostalgia – Susan swore she would lie cold in her grave before she even considered regretting killing her husband – she sat down at the table she'd spent so many evenings at, either in silence with Albert, or talking animatedly with Benjamin. Speaking of her friend, he sat opposite her, a grim look on his face. By now, the redhead had gathered that whatever he was going to say next wouldn't be good – would, in fact, be something she honestly didn't want to hear, but curiosity held her tongue, and opened her ears.

Benjamin didn't meet her eyes. Instead, those beautiful chocolate brown orbs gazed past her, focusing on the door, as if ghosts of the past were walking through it, parading themselves in full view. Once the thought entered Susan's head, she had to stop herself turning round to make sure she wasn't correct. Instead, she simply sat in silence, waiting for Benjamin to finish his tale.

"They say this place is haunted." He said abruptly, an odd look in his eyes, misting them over. "That's why nobody came, afterwards. Nobody came upstairs to the barber shop, either. They said they didn't want to anger the ghosts."

"They must'a been jokin'." Susan snorted. "Albert was too lazy to be a bloomin' ghost."

"We lost business altogether after awhile." Benjamin continued, not heeding her words, lost in the painful past, his words disjointed and painful. "Lucy wanted to leave, find somewhere else where we could start over, but I told her we'd stay, try and keep going somehow. Besides, I thought you'd be back one day, and want to know where to find us all. But…"

"But?" Susan echoed, impatience overshadowing tactfulness.

"Lucy got sick, about eighteen months after you left. The influenza." Benjamin buried his head in his hands. Susan's mouth formed a small 'O' of understanding. Lucy had always been a frail little thing, who got battered down by even the slightest cold. If she'd gotten the influenza in the depths of winter…

"It took her six whole months to die." The barber's voice broke slightly. "Then she just slipped away in her sleep. We couldn't afford to buy her any medicine."

For a few moments, a tactful silence fell between the two friends, as Susan tried to bring herself to ask the question she needed an answer to more than any other. Finally, she gathered her courage and took the plunge.

"Benjamin, what 'appened to me boy?" Her voice faltered a little as she choked out the name. "Where's Thomas?"

"Gone."

The single word sent a wave of numbness crashing over Susan, washing away all feeling other than nagging, hopeless despair that encircled her heart, not letting her brain accept the possibility that her son was gone, that she would never see him grow up, court his first girl, get married…

_Gone._

No, he couldn't be gone. It was a mistake, it had to be. Her beautiful boy—gone. It was inconceivable. In a moment, Benjamin would remember, would realise, would set her right and then they'd laugh at his stupidity…

It took a single glance at the barber's face to destroy this fragile fantasy. Her eyes asked him how.

"The… The 'flu. He had it too." Benjamin hesitated for the briefest moment. "I'm so sorry. There was nothing we could do."

"Dead." She choked on the word. It was so final, so irreversible. "Gone."

Susan had thought she could never be more broken than she already was, but apparently that was a delusion. She was shattered afresh into a thousand pieces. Ten years spent hoping that she might have a son to come home to. Ten years dreaming about what he might look like, whether he took after her or not, what his personality was like. Ten years of useless delusions.

Susan came back to her senses in time to feel a glass being pushed into her hands. Not even bothering to question the contents, she raised it to her lips and drank, a familiar warmth burning the back of her throat as she swallowed the gin. Blinking away the tears in her eyes, she made out a bottle on the table. Wordlessly, she took it and refilled the glass when it was empty, falling into an irregular routine. She filled the glass. She drank the gin. She refilled the glass. She drank the gin…

* * *

Benjamin watched the broken woman drinking, and wondered if he should stop her, but reasoned that if anyone had a reason to get drunk, it was her. To come back from ten years of exile to a place known as Hell on Earth, to find that your son was gone…

_Gone._

Like Johanna. Johanna was gone. Gone… Gone… Gone…

_Gone._

The Judge. Turpin. As if he hadn't done enough damage by transporting Nellie when she didn't deserve it – especially not a life sentence – he waited until Johanna had been left for just five minutes while Benjamin went to the market to buy what little food they could afford… and then pounced. The barber recalled fiercely how he'd been told that with so little money he was obviously not fit to take care of his own daughter.

_Gone._

And now she was in the clutches of that tyrant, that vulture of the law. Locked up in that Goddamned house, and Turpin had done God only knew what to her. Benjamin's mind started to go down a path and he shied away from it violently. No… If his little lamb, his turtledove had been violated by that… that monster, then he would pay in blood. The image of Turpin in the barber chair, with a razor slitting his throat, bringing forth rubies of blood, was deeply satisfying to Benjamin. It was exactly what he deserved, to be killed and gutted like the animal he was.

_Gone. She was gone. Gone forever._

The barber sighed, and glanced up, only to see that the redhead had managed to drink herself into unconsciousness whilst he had been lost in thoughts of revenge. A smile tugged half-heartedly at his lips at how innocent she looked asleep, small, barley audible snores emitting from her form every so often.

_Gone. Johanna was gone. But she was here._

"What's dead is dead." Benjamin whispered to himself, reaching out a hand to stroke his friend's curls. "And what's alive is alive."

And so it was. Benjamin vowed to himself that, come what may, he would not lose her, lose his last lifeline. His dark angel. She might not be as he remembered, and he might not be as she remembered, but nothing could stop them trying. Especially something so trivial as a few words.

_Gone. What's dead is dead._


	4. Chapter 3: Truth And Lies

A/N: Sorry about not updating over the weekend guys. I would have done, but my friend came over for a sleepover. We watched Edward Scissorhands on Saturday night, and I ended up crying (sniffle). Johnny is amazing in whatever role he plays, and Burton is a fabulous director. ANYWAY. On topic. Chapter 3. Er... I started this with the intention of it being a fairly happy chapter and... well, see for yourselves. I SWEAR the next chapter will be happy-ish.

* * *

**Chapter 3 – Truth And Lies**

**OoOoOoOoO**

Susan stirred from sleep slowly, her eyelashes fluttering slightly but not opening. Her head was resting on something that was definitely not a pillow or cushion – or the floor – and her hands were linked around something else, and something _else_ was curled into her hair softly. _And_ her head felt like it had been kicked by a horse to boot; the aching thump almost drawing a moan from her.

_What the…?_ She thought, before groggily managing to open her dark brown eyes somewhat. The sight she was greeted with made her open them fully, biting back an oath. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

She was slumped sidewards in the booth in her shop, her head resting on Benjamin's chest and her arms around his neck. His hand was resting in her auburn hair, as if he'd fallen asleep in the act of running his fingers through them. Susan closed her eyes again and counted to ten, before emitting a loud sigh and deciding that she would have to make it perfectly clear to Benjamin that Eleanor Lovett was dead and gone, and no matter what he tried he was not going to bring her back. The things she'd seen in Australia… the things that went on under the noses of the officials… even _by_ the officials… A shudder ran right down her spine as several memories bubbled to the fore of her mind. No, it would be better for both of them if Benjamin realised that she was beyond saving. If her heart was still whole, a stab of pain would have struck it at the thought of letting go of all those girlish fantasies she had indulged in as a young girl, even up to when Benjamin had gotten married… even when she had gotten married. She'd never stopped hoping. But now it was time to accept.

Sighing, Susan disentangled herself from her… from _the_ barber. She stood and rearranged the skirts of her dress, before gazing around the shop. If she could find a way of owning it again, even though she had no money, then she'd have a place to stay and a business to come back to. Maybe the thought of new management would get rid of those fanciful ghost stories once and for all. Susan pushed away the thought that if this was impossible, she'd be out on the streets, and set to work trying to find a broom so she could get rid of all the dust.

When Benjamin awoke some time later, aching from the unusual position and missing the warmth of another body beside him, he was greeted by the sight of a much cleaner shop, and a very busy redhead carrying on cleaning. Turning at the sound of him working the stiffness out of his muscles, for a moment she almost smiled, but then her expression went blank again. Not hostile, or anything like that. Just… blank.

"Morning, Nellie." He greeted her, to be met with a glimmer of annoyance in her eyes.

"Susan now." She replied, going back to what she had been doing – namely, cleaning a stack of dishes in the chipped sink – with zest. "Susan Linnet."

"All right… Susan." The unfamiliar name rolled off his tongue. "You're staying, then?"

"Might as well." Susan replied. "Got a roof o'er me 'ead, an' a business ready an' waitin'. Seems a Godsend."

"So this is it, then?" Benjamin remarked softly. "We just… go back to normal? As if the last ten years never happened?" The prospect was an attractive one, to say the least.

"Not quite." The redheaded woman didn't so much as pause in her activities. "If we can get the shops back, you're welcome to 'ave yours back, o' course, but I think it'd be better if we pretended not to know each other, like… an' keep it that way."

"What?" Benjamin wondered if he'd heard wrong, the last tendrils of sleep clouding his hearing.

"You 'eard me." Susan responded, a little sharply, Benjamin thought. "It's for the best, really. I've changed Benjamin, more'n you'll ever know. You…" She paused, and seemed to struggle to grasp the right words, turning from him once more. "You're lookin' for that girl from ten years ago, an'… an' she's _gone_, Benjamin – as gone as Lucy, as gone as Thomas – an' she's never comin' back. She _can't_ come back, 'cause… 'cause she's dead."

"All right." He said slowly, standing quietly and taking a few steps forwards. "You say Nellie's dead? I… I suppose that's understandable. It was naïve to think you wouldn't have changed." The barber reached out and laid a hand on the redhead's shoulder, tightening the grip when she tried to shrug it off. "But why can't I know Susan Linnet?"

Susan snorted softly. "D'you really want to? I jus' told you I've changed, d'you really think you'll want to know me?"

"Yes." Benjamin stepped forwards, so he was facing Susan, and looked at her intently. "I've known you since you were thirteen – do you really think I won't be here for you now."

"No, but that's not the point. I… I'm no good for you, Benjamin. Never was really, jus' bein' a slum girl an' all, but now…" The redhead bit down on her bottom lip, something she always did when she was angry with herself. "Albert was right on that one."

Benjamin was at a loss. Why was it so hard for her to understand that friendship like theirs was built to last through changes such as these? That he would accept her no matter how much she had changed? The barber was brusquely reminded of an encounter not long after she had married Albert.

* * *

_Benjamin had come down to the pie shop after Lucy had fallen asleep, intending to have a drink or two with his friend and talk for half an hour or so before retiring himself. Instead of a bubbly, happy baker, he was met by the sight of Nellie sat in the small booth, head down, and yet obviously crying, the small sobs almost inaudible, her pale hands wrapped firmly around a glass of gin, the bottle beside it. She was shaking a little._

_"Nellie?" He called softly, sitting beside her and trying to put an arm around the young woman, only for her to struggle away. "What happened?"_

_"Maybe you should go back up tonight, Benjamin." Nellie whispered, not meeting his eyes, keeping her head at an odd angle so he couldn't see her face._

_"What? Well, why on Earth-?"_

Please_, Benjamin."_

_Wordlessly, Benjamin reached a hand out and held her chin, turning her face towards him. He could never tell what Nellie was thinking if he couldn't see her eyes. Yet what he saw on her face now made his blood run cold, and then hot, with shock and anger._

_"Who?" He asked, horrified at the large bruise covering her right cheek. "I'll-"_

_"It was me own fault." Nellie cut him off, the lie evident in her eyes. "I tripped over earlier an' hit meself on the counter. I'm fine."_

_Benjamin just looked at her, eliciting a long, drawn-out sigh._

_"The truth this time, please." He chided her gently, trying once again to pull his friend into a half-hug. This time Nellie didn't resist, instead laying her head on his shoulder as she spoke._

_"Albert thinks we're sneakin' 'round behind 'is back." She said bluntly. Benjamin couldn't help himself – he let out a chuckle._

_"You can't be…" He began, and then trailed off as he saw Nellie's expression. "You're serious."_

_"Yeah. I am." Nellie abruptly sat up straight. "So, I think it'd be best if you jus' didn't come down for a few nights. 'E was drunk, but that's when e's 'onest 'bout what 'e's thinkin'."_

_"Eleanor, I don't see why you should let the paranoid delusions of your husband stop you living your life the way you want to." Benjamin felt a fire building inside him, setting alight to the fuse of his temper. "I mean, you can't credit it! Has he forgotten I have a wife? Planning to have a child?" He shook his head, disgusted, missing the way the baker winced slightly at those rhetorical questions. Something suddenly occurred to Benjamin, and he turned slowly to Nellie, brushing his fingers over her bruise with a touch so feather-light it was barely there. The smallest shiver ran down Nellie's spine, and he drew his hand back, afraid that he'd hurt her._

_"Did he…?" He didn't need to finish the question, or hear the answer. Benjamin balled his hands into fists. "Nellie, listen to me. If he ever –_ ever_ – tries to hurt you again, come up o the shop and tell me. I promise I won't let him hurt you."_

_"You can't promise that, love." Nellie's tears had long since stopped, but now a single diamond glinted on her cheek. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't 'ave said a word. Forget I said anythin'."_

_"No." Benjamin brushed the tear away with his thumb. "Please, Nellie, promise me you'll do it."_

_"I… All right." She sighed heavily. Benjamin tucked a stray red curl behind her ear._

_"Good. Is there anything else you want to get off your chest."_

_She said no, pretending not to know he could see she was lying. He pretended to believe her._

* * *

"Is it because I didn't stop him?"

Susan blinked several times, confused by the sudden change of topic.

"What're you on about?" She demanded, hands on her hips, whirling round to face the barber, whose expression could only be described as wretched.

"Do you not want to know me because I didn't stop Albert when you needed me that night?" Benjamin reiterated. "I promised you I wouldn't let him hurt you, and then…"

Susan was torn. Half of her wanted to hug him for simply being Benjamin Barker and remembering something with clarity that she'd almost forgotten, and the other half wanted to shake him. She told him that she'd changed, that they couldn't carry on as before because of her… and then he blamed himself? Over something like that?

"'Aven't I jus' been sayin' that this is 'cause o' 'ow I've changed?" A smirk threatened to take over her face due to his actions and she forced it down, annoyance beginning to bubble up instead. "I never… You never… Argh!" Susan slammed a hand down on the counter to let out a little of her frustration. "Stop blamin' yourself, Benjamin, 'cause I never 'ave an' never will."

"Then tell me one thing, and I'll not mention it again." Susan looked into Benjamin's eyes and saw he meant it, and gave a stiff nod. The barber carried on. "What else happened that night? You lied when you said there was nothing else."

Susan was about to say she couldn't remember, but then remembered that he'd probably see she was lying.

"Oh, nothin' really." She said instead, a false airiness surrounding her words. "Albert jus' got a bit uptight 'bout me not getting' pregnant right away. 'E said a few things… but God, that was years ago."

"Did he call you useless?"

Susan stared at Benjamin, wondering how on Earth this man managed to read her mind, or know what she was hiding. After all these years it shouldn't be so easy for him! And yet there he was, fixing her with that penetrating stare of his.

"Yes. 'E did. Now can we forget about it?" She narrowed her eyes dangerously. "You said-"

Susan was cut off as the barber pulled her into a hug. She felt her eyes go wide as Benjamin held her tightly.

"You're not." He whispered into her ear, his breath tickling slightly. "And don't say you didn't believe him."

The redhead didn't respond. Benjamin was right. She had believed Albert when he called her a useless whore… and to be truly honest, she'd never stopped believing it because it was true. Well, maybe she wasn't entirely useless – and she certainly wasn't a whore – but she wasn't good enough for Benjamin. Especially not now.

Unsure how to respond to the gesture, and beginning to feel more than a little overwhelmed, Susan pulled away from the barber, and turned back to the dirty dishes she'd been cleaning.

"Right, now that that's sorted, I've got some cleanin' to finish." She announced abruptly, knowing that she'd probably hurt Benjamin, hating herself for it, and knowing it had to be done. She heard Benjamin moving away, but a minute or so later, a quiet song reached her ears.

_"She is my friend_

_See how she listens_

_See how she shines_

_How she smiles in the light_

_My friend_

_My faithful friend..._

_Speak to me, friend_

_Whisper..._

_I'll listen_

_I know, I know you've been locked _

_Out of sight_

_All these years, like me_

_My friend..._

_Well you've come home to find me waiting_

_Home, and we're together!_

_And we'll do wonders..._

_Won't we?"_

_Oh, how I wish we could, my friend._ Susan thought as she cleaned. _Oh, how I wish we could._

* * *

A/N: Please review! I noticed I didn't get as many reviews for the last chapter, which was a little disappoitning. Thank you to those people who DID review. Was it because there wasn't a song? Sorry, I couldn't find a way to fit a song into Chapter 2. Anyway, did you know that every time you don't click the lavendar button a baker fails to have a happy ending with a hot singing barber? 'Tis true.


	5. Chapter 4: The Rise Of Sweeney Todd

A/N: This is my last update before I go back to school after the holidays (big sigh), so warning: updates will probably be less frequent from now on. Also, Benjamin is going to seem OOC and his personality will jump around somewhat in this chapter. This was entirely intentional and the reasons for it will come out eventually. Also, some foreshadowing. Don't expect it to make sense.

* * *

**Chapter 4 – The Rise Of Sweeney Todd**

**OoOoOoOoO**

"I've been thinkin', an' I 'ad an idea."

Benjamin looked up from his breakfast to see Susan sat opposite him in the booth, a triumphant expression on her face.

"Go on." He said, with slight trepidation, remembering previous times when she'd 'had an idea'. The results had mostly been good, but occasionally disastrous.

"We'll change your name!" Susan declared and sat back, arms folded over the bodice of one of her old dresses she'd fished out of her wardrobe that morning. It was worn, old, and somewhat moth-eaten, but it was still serviceable. The redhead seemed annoyed when Benjamin simply looked back at her blankly. "To get your shop runnin' again! Listen, if we pretend you're someone else, then people'll prob'ly forget 'bout that 'ole ghost business, now that they can gossip 'bout both shops 'avin' new owners."

"That… has possibilities." Benjamin conceded, running a hand through his hair, a habit he'd had since he was a young teen. Susan seemed to have accepting – grudgingly or not – that Benjamin was going to stay with her, no matter what. "Except everyone knows what I look like, so if I simply changed my name, people would see right through it."

"Change 'ow you look, then." Susan waved a hand dismissively.

"And how the hell should I go about doing that?" Benjamin asked, exasperated.

"_'Ow'_, 'e says." The redhead rolled her eyes. "For pity's sake, man, are you a barber o' not? Use your barberin'… stuff." She gestured vaguely, indicating what would soon be solely called 'barberin' stuff'.

"I suppose…" The dark-haired man trailed off as he smirked, an idea coming to him. "Mrs Linnet, you're a bloody wonder. Eminently practical and yet always appropriate."

"Oh, Mr B, jus' leave it to me." The baker winked at him almost saucily and tossed her head, playing up the slight joke. "Or… what you goin' to 'ave as your new name, then?"

"I don't know yet." Benjamin stood up, making his way to the door, and the barber shop he hadn't entered in years. He hadn't been able to bear staying there after Johanna had been taken. "Don't disturb me."

"Oh, I'd '_ate_ to think I'd done _that_." The sarcastic comment followed him, bringing a smile to his lips.

* * *

Benjamin stood before the full-length mirror in the dusty shop, surveying his reflection in the newly cleaned glass. He couldn't properly recall the last time he'd inspected himself so closely, and for a few seconds the changes he hadn't noted, but were now being thrust at him, were disconcerting. His hair, once neat and a deep chestnut brown, was now unruly and almost paler, as if it was wilting from lack of sunlight. For Benjamin Barker stayed inside – whether it was to work in the inn, or drink – far more than he went out. His skin was similarly pale, except for dark bags under his eyes, matching the similarly dark shade of the once joyfully warm irises. Now they were darkened by sorrow, regret, and a thousand other burdens, along with a dark hunger for revenge. Those deep pits might have sent a shiver down the man's back, if not for – was he deluding himself? – a spark of warmth that had not been present before Nell-… before Susan's return. Benjamin unknowingly wrinkled his nose at the name in distaste. He understood the necessity of such an action, of course. It would be ridiculous to expect nobody to remember, even after ten years… but did she have to act so… so changed? Surely Nellie was not 'dead' as Susan proclaimed, but merely buried, perhaps? Asleep and in need of coaxing out?

Benjamin shook his head, clearing the thoughts away for later, and went to rummage through what few supplies he hadn't sold to try and pay for food for the family, and medicine for Lucy. It was all right for Susan to just tell him to change his appearance – to be fair, the idea was a good one, in theory – but times were hard in London. He had little more than his precious razors – given to him by Lucy's father, the man a barber himself that Benjamin had been apprenticed to – when he finished his apprenticeship and became a fully-fledged barber. Benjamin idly remembered that Andrew Saunders had also died in the influenza epidemic, his wife following him several months later. It was as if everything had died that winter. Hopes, dreams, people, family ties.

_But now I have something back._ Benjamin thought, a slight smile just tugging at the corners of his mouth as he held up a razor, having been toying with the box for a few moments as he reminisced, watching the instrument catch the light, gleaming softly. _And nothing will take her from me a second time. Together we will show Turpin the meaning of revenge…I started pulling his life apart eight years ago, and I intend to finish what I began._

And in that moment, the final part of Benjamin Barker died. This process of death had been long and arduous, and though the absence of Benjamin would not be noticed for quite some time, a darker, more sadistic man bubbled just below the surface, now fully free at last, plotting beneath the façade of Benjamin Barker, no longer hindered so much by the conscience that plagued Benjamin.

And to think, it had all begun with just one small vial of arsenic…

* * *

Susan surveyed the shop, her eagle eyes searching for any remaining dirt, and sighed in relief when she saw her job was done. The shop positively shone in the morning sunlight filtering through the (newly cleaned) windows. Everything was perfect – now she just needed some money, some ingredients, and, of course, some customers. Benjamin had informed her already that her shop had never technically been sold, and so technically still belonged to her, although since she was pretending to be someone else this was little help. So Susan had concocted a story that would hopefully allow her to keep her shop for free and explain why she so resembled Nellie Lovett. She would say that Nellie was a cousin, they had been close when they were younger – writing letters to each other regularly, Susan having lived in Yorkshire – and Susan had been so terribly shocked to find that her dear cousin had done something so evil as to kill her own husband, and now that she had mustered some funds (the biggest lie of them all) had come down to London to try and rebuild what had once been a thriving business.

Yes, it was sure to keep the gossips satisfied, and anyone who came around to poke their nose where it didn't belong. Everything was falling into place perfectly. Susan had also considered revenge a priority when she had first realised the Bountiful was docking in London, but now, back home, she wondered if it was possible. The Judge lived in a different world, all but unreachable. And what could she do, if by some miracle he were to, say, come to the shop? Bake him a pie filled with arsenic? Run him through with the bread knife? Drown him in the sink? All the ideas were entertaining in their own right, and Susan longed to inflict one or all of them on the man, but she had to realise that there was no chance of the honourable Judge Turpin dropping by a pie shop of Fleet Street. The redhead had by no means given up entirely on revenge, but the comforting presence of Benjamin, the security of having her old home back, and the knowledge that she was all but alone in the world made her see a different line of reasoning. Perhaps if she… delayed plans of vengeance, she could both set up her business again, and think of a suitable plan. Susan nodded to herself. It was a good idea, one she could stick with for now. After all, what was the advice she had so readily given out time and again? _Watch it close, let it brew… wait._

As Susan was deliberating how long Benjamin would take, the door opened, chiming, and a voice spoke.

"Well, I did my best. Do I look a changed man, Susan?"

Susan turned sharply and stared, aware that her mouth was slightly open and not caring. Stood just inside the doorway was Benjamin Barker, only… it wasn't. His hair, previously brown, was now jet black, with the exception of one streak of pure white on the right side of his head. But the change was beyond that simple difference in colour. It was something deeper, something in the way his eyes sparkled, perhaps, or the intensity of his stare, or even the man's posture as he leaned against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. Susan was about to dismiss it as her imagination, when the slightest shiver of intuition ran down her spine. Her instincts never led her wrong, yet this time Susan buried and ignored them, instead stretching her lips into a smile at the barber.

"Perfect." She cooed. "Absolutely perfect. I doubt if anyone'd know, love."

The redhead was being perfectly honest. She was certain that nobody would recognise Benjamin for who he was. Probably the closest anyone would get is seeing an uncanny similarity, something that would not cause trouble, and could be explained away as coincidence easily enough.

"How's 'bout introducin' yourself, then, sir?" The baker giggled, drawing a smile from the barber. He crossed the distance between them, and took Susan's hand, pulling her into a half-embrace, as if he was about to start dancing with her.

"Sweeney Todd, at your service, my dear." He smirked almost wolfishly. "And I can promise you one thing if nothing else: nothing will get in our way."

"An' rightly so." Susan replied, her voice little more than a breath. Lord, she had thought Benjamin Barker beautiful, but this new man, Sweeney Todd, was… well, Susan wasn't sure if she could compare them so easily, but Sweeney held a darkish aura. The baker almost kicked herself, trying to rid herself of these foolish imaginings. It was just Benjamin beneath a façade, acting up his part to make her laugh as he had so often done before. There was nothing wrong with the world – she and he would rise and stand on top of the world if they put their minds to it. Susan considered the name he had chosen for himself for a moment, and had to agree it was perfect. Normally she would have made a neutral noise and suggested something else, but for this act Sweeney – for Susan was no longer sure if she would accurately call him Benjamin Barker – was playing, it tied everything together.

* * *

Susan would look back on this moment at the end, and decide that this was where it all began to go wrong, where the seed of rot that eventually brought about their downfall was sown. With the rise of Sweeney Todd.


	6. Chapter 5: Advertising Works Wonders

A/N: Sorry for the long wait, folks. School plus homework plus writer's block equals slow updates (sigh). But I have a new computer now! (Claps) and for some reason that inspired me to get writing this weekend, and now I present to you the longest chapter so far at 3,385 words D And I don't know if I'ave already mentioned this, but I have the Sweeney Todd soundtrack now, so yays I can get all the songs right (Claps again). Next chapter contains the scene I've been wanting to write since I started this story.

* * *

**Chapter 5 – Advertising Works Wonders**

**OoOoOoOoO**

It was mid-morning in London, and two figures were walking through the crowded streets, following a group of similar folk heading towards a large square.

Susan sighed and shook her head in disbelief over what she had just heard from Sweeney.

"So, 'ave I got this right? You couldn't get any business 'cause a jumped-up swindler of an Aye-talian set up shop in London, an' 'e can't 'old a candle to you, 'as high prices… yet people prefer 'im o'er you?" Susan despaired of the people of London more than ever. Sweeney seemed to consider all this for a moment and then gave a stiff nod.

"That seems to cover it."

"An'… _why_ are we 'ere again?"

"Money." Sweeney stated by way of explanation, and seemed to consider that this needed no elaboration until he saw the look on his companion's face. "I had an idea. If I can challenge this man, and show all of those assembled that I am the better barber, then we might get some business again. Think: If I win it would be the perfect time to announce the 'new ownership' of the shops."

Susan considered this for several moments, and had to acknowledge the logical aspect of the barber's suggestion, but something niggled at the back of her mind – though she would never voice it aloud. What if Sweeney didn't win? Susan had utter faith that he would, but still… he was out of practise, and Susan was deeply suspicious of foreigners anyway. The charlatan would probably cheat. The baker wasn't entirely sure how one could cheat in such a challenge, but believed that it was possible. He was foreign, after all. Probably had all sorts of tricks up his sleeve.

Set up in the middle of the square was a brightly-painted, almost gypsy-looking caravan with a wooden sign running along the top, which in the centre read: '_Adolfo Pirelli_ "_King Of Barbers, Barber Of Kings_"', and to the right read "_Haircutter to His Royal Majesty the King of Naples._" Cloths hung down either side of a red velvet curtain advertising Pirelli's Miracle Elixir, whatever that was. People – mostly men – were milling around as if waiting for a show to start. Susan felt suddenly claustrophobic in the mash of people, and her pulse quickened when she realised how easy it would be for someone to recognise her. She hadn't really thought how she could disguise herself, and had prayed that the changes that Devil's Isle had inflicted on here – which hadn't been trifles – would prevent people making the connection, and there was always her story to fall back on. But here it all seemed meaningless, and paranoia overtook the baker. Was that woman talking to her companion about her? Had that man's gaze lingered too long? Was that a constable that had just peered at her? Susan's breath quickened as her heart pounded like a drum in her chest, so hard it was a wonder the people around her couldn't hear it.

An arm snaked casually around her waist.

"Are you going to be all right?" Sweeney asked, a note of concern ringing clear in his voice. "You can go back, if…" Susan shook her head, silently cutting him off, but also voice her concern, knowing that if she didn't she'd end up running back to the shop sooner or later.

"I know I 'ave to do this. But what if someone-?" She began, however, only to be cut off.

"They won't."

"But-"

"They _won't_." The barber repeated firmly. Susan sighed and decided it was in her best interests to just try and calm down – and, as she realised that no, not everyone in the square was looking at her, her panic faded away little by little until she could breathe easily again, and then smirked inwardly at her foolishness.

"So 'ow long 'as this bloke been goin'?" Susan wondered aloud.

"Oh, about five, six years now. Comes every Thursday like clockwork." Sweeney replied with a shrug. "To be honest, he didn't really hurt the business that much – he just kicked what was already down on its last legs."

"Hmm." Susan gave another cursory glance around the crowd, and then cursed under her breath.

"What is it?" The barber was instantly alert, scanning faces as he followed her line of sight. When he saw what the baker was looking at, his expression turned grim. "Bamford. Damn." Sweeney tugged on Susan's arm until she faced him – albeit reluctantly. "Look at- Susan, look at me. Ignore him; he hasn't even seen- No, Susan! Look. At. Me."

Susan eventually pried her eyes off the Beadle properly, and though her composure seemed otherwise intact at first glance, Sweeney thought he could detect the slightest shake in her hands, and the look in her eyes reminded him of a rabbit looking down the barrel of a gun.

"He will not see you, d'you hear me? He is not going to recognise you. Nothing is going to happen."

"What if 'e does? Oh God, I can't go back there…"

"Shhh." Sweeney hushed the baker quietly as he noticed a couple of heads turn curiously. "People are noticing."

The redhead glanced around and didn't say another word.

Several moments later, a young boy, no older than eleven, strode out onto the small stage that was erected in front of the caravan, pounding a tune on a tin drum. His blonde hair was tucked neatly into a small hat, and his peaky face was very earnest. Clearing his throat once he had everyone's attention, he began his sale's pitch.

_"Ladies an' gentlemen!_

_May I 'ave your attention, perlease?_

_D'you you wake ev'ry mornin' in shame an' despair_

_To discover your pillow is covered with 'air_

_What ought not to be there?_

_Well, ladies an' gentlemen,_

_From now on you can waken at ease._

_You need ne'er again 'ave a worry o' care_

_I will show you a miracle marvellous rare._

_Gentlemen you are about to see _

_Somethin' what rose from the dead—_

On the top o' me 'ead!"

With that, the boy pulled off his hat to allow his long blonde curls to fall down to his shoulders. Amidst the gasps of shock and wonder, Susan found herself envying the mother of that young bonny boy. Thankfully her years on Devil's Isle – though the worst of her life – had hardened her, and made it easier to push back bothersome emotions. But Sweeney still squeezed her hand slightly, giving her the little comfort she needed.

_"'Twas Pirelli's_

_Miracle Elixir,_

_That's what did the trick, sir,_

_True, sir, true_

_Was it quick, sir?_

_Did it in a tick, sir,_

_Just like an elixir_

_Ought to do!_

_'Ow 'bout a bottle, mister?_

_Only costs a penny, guaranteed."_

The boy began to pass bottles of the yellow elixir out to people at the front of the crowd, and they soon circulated through the crowd, everyone wanting to see this 'miracle elixir'. Susan was considering it more codswallop the longer she stood there, and she wondered how long this Pirelli would be able to keep the fraud going before someone noticed.

Foreigners. You could never trust them.

_"Does Pirelli's_

_Stimulate the growth, sir?_

_You can 'ave me oath, sir,_

_'Tis unique."_

The blonde bent over and rubbed some of the elixir onto a nearby man's balding spot.

_"Rub a minute—_

_Stimulatin', i'n' it?_

_Soon you'll 'ave to thin it_

_Once a week!"_

Sweeney nudged Susan gently, bringing out of her trance of watching the young boy signing, and she saw the barber had gotten hold of one of the bottles of elixir. He deftly unscrewed it.

"Let's see what this is really made of." Sweeney muttered under his breath, and the two of them bent their heads over the bottle, only to pull back in disgust, noses wrinkled, gagging at the stench of urine emitting from it. Susan suddenly had an idea, and, smirking at the barber, asked loudly:

"Pardon me, sir, what's that awful stench?"

Sweeney smirked back, catching on.

"Must be standing near an open trench!" He turned to the woman next to him. "Pardon me, Ma'am, what's the awful stench?"

Susan did the same thing to the man beside her, and soon enough everyone was muttering it, as the boy ploughed on determinedly.

_"Buy Pirelli's_

_Miracle Elixir:_

_Anythin' what's slick, sir,_

_Soon sprouts curls._

_Try Pirelli's!_

_When they see 'ow thick, sir,_

_You can 'ave your pick, sir,_

_O' the girls!_

_Wanna buy a bottle, missus?"_

Meanwhile, Sweeney was making a great show of examining the bottle of elixir, a mockingly puzzled expression on his face that made Susan bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing.

"What is this?" The barber demanded. "Smells like piss."

"Smells like…" Susan decided to join in and pretended to sniff the bottle, then held her nose. "Phew!"

"Looks like piss. This is piss. Piss with ink." Sweeney declared loudly. Susan turned with a smirk to the woman beside her who was examining a bottle for herself.

"Wouldn't touch it if I was you, dear." She said.

To his own credit, the boy selling the elixir wasn't about to let his customers get away without a fight. Desperately, he kept singing, throwing appealing glanced at the crowd, which almost made Susan feel guilty for stirring up trouble. The boy's face was so sweet, and he looked such a dear thing. Everything about him reminded Susan of her dead son, and how she'd never see him grow up.

_"Let Pirelli's_

_Miracle Elixir_

_Activate your roots, sir—"_

"Keep it off your boots, sir." Sweeney advised a man beside him, and elaborated at his puzzled look. "Eats right through."

"_Yes, get Pirelli's!_

_Use a bottle of it!_

_Ladies seem to love it—"_

"Flies do too." Susan called out, to general amusement. The redhead was slightly surprised she'd taken part in this small joke with Sweeney – when she'd gotten off the Bountiful, she'd never thought she'd end up doing something that drew attention to her so much.

The boy finished his sales pitch, looking disappointed that it had been ruined, and as Susan felt another small twinge of guilt – how strange that this young boy could wring out an emotion she'd thought dead in herself! – the red curtain that led into the caravan was flung open, and out strode the most ridiculously dressed man the baker had ever seen. Biting down on her bottom lip to suppress a chuckle, Susan took in the royal blue, gold-trimmed suit, the top hat with a scraggly peacock feather in it, the large cravat, and the cloak. She was left in no doubt as to whom the man was. Pirelli gave a self-confident smirk and bowed flamboyantly.

"I am Adolfo Pirelli, da king of da barbers, da barber of kings! E buon giorno, good day." He blew a kiss to the crowd. "I blow you a kiss!"

"Really?" Susan muttered, and Sweeney gave a small snort of laughter.

"And I, da so-famous Pirelli, I wish-a to know-a who has-a da nerve-a to say my elixir is piss!" Pirelli's voice suddenly darkened with fury. "Who says this?!"

For several seconds there was a guilty silence amongst the crowd, and then Sweeney stepped forwards, raising his arm to get the Italian's attention. Susan drew in a breath. Now they would see if their plan was going to work.

"I do. I am Mr Sweeney Todd of Fleet Street." Sweeney motioned for Susan to pass him the bottle of elixir, and then held it up. "I have opened a bottle of your 'miracle elixir', and I am in no doubt that it simply an errant fraud, concocted from piss and ink, and absolutely useless. And furthermore, 'Signor', I have serviced no kings, yet I wager I can shave a cheek with ten times more dexterity than any street mountebank!" The barber passed the elixir back to Susan, and reached to his belt, as the redhead watched on, confused for a moment as he pulled out two of his razors. "You see these razors? I lay them against five pounds that I am the better barber."

Pirelli sneered at the brunette, obviously not taking the challenge at all seriously, and though it may just have been the remnant of Susan's paranoia, the baker thought for a moment she saw something spark in the Italian's eyes as he looked at the razors.

"You hear zis foolish man?" He asked the crowd. "Now, please, you will see how he will regret his folly!"

Sweeney made his way to the stage and smirked confidently, and Susan berated her heart for skipping a beat.

"Who's for a free shave?"

There was a clamour of shots as at least a dozen men struggled to the stage, all in need of a shave. Sweeney turned to the Beadle, and Susan instinctively shrunk back a little into the crowd, even though the rat-like man wasn't so much as glancing in her direction.

"Will Beadle Bamford be the judge?"

The horrendous little man gave what he obviously thought was a humble and happy smile. To Susan it looked more like a grimace.

"Glad, as always, to oblige my friends and neighbours."

_An' we're neither._ Susan thought. _I wish 'e'd go back to wha'ever 'ole 'e crawled out o'._

"The fastest, smoothest shave is the winner." The Beadle continued, after Sweeney and Pirelli had arranged their supplies and the volunteers had been seated. He gave a small toot on a whistle, and the contest was begun.

Pirelli had the blonde boy hold the other end of his strop as he sharpened his razors. Susan automatically held her breath as the implement came close to the boy's knuckles, but Pirelli lifted it clear before he was hurt, causing the redhead to grudgingly accept that he was decent to avoid causing a child deliberate harm. However, his ridiculously flamboyant singing that followed set her teeth on edge and temporarily made her forget this. Tuning out the high-pitched song that reminded her of a trapped pig in many ways, Susan turned her gaze towards Sweeney, who was taking his time sharpening his razors, making sure they were perfect before he began.

_Hurry up, you silly man._ She thought. _You 'ave to be the fastest as well as the smoothest._

But she needn't have worried. Sweeney took his time sharpening his razors and mixing up the shaving foam, but examining his posture closely, Susan realised he was watching Pirelli closely for the perfect moment to beat him. Soon enough it came – Pirelli hit a high note and made several flamboyant gestures as he emitted a sound like a strangled eunuch, and Sweeney raised one razor and shaved the man before him perfectly in about four deft strokes, and then stood back for the rat-faced Beadle to examine his handiwork. Once he was satisfied, he blew the whistle again.

"The winner is Todd!" Bamford exclaimed as Sweeney's volunteer felt his chin, a pleased expression on his face. Pirelli froze as the Beadle's words, and a dark scowl contorted his features as he realised he had lost. Even so, the Italian forced his features into a sort of twisted smirk, and bowed with mock humility to Sweeney, who surveyed him coolly.

"Sir, I bow to a skill far greater than my own."

Sweeney simply held out his hand.

"The five pounds." He said simply with a bored tone. Pirelli pulled out an elegant velvet purse, and withdrew a folded five pound note from it, handing it over.

"Here, sir, and may the good Lord smile on you." Turning to the crowd, he bowed again with fairly good grace. "Until we meet again! Come, boy."

With that, Pirelli and the young boy re-entered their caravan. Susan waited for Sweeney to return to her, but instead he conversed for several seconds with the Beadle in low tones. Eventually, the barber forced a smile, and turned to the crowd.

"Mr Bamford has just asked me why he has not heard of my establishment on Fleet Street, and I believe this is the perfect time to announce why." He gave Susan a meaningful look, and she realised he meant to announce the opening of the shops there and then. Nervously, she approached the stage and stood beside Sweeney. "We open tomorrow on Fleet Street – my barber shop, and Mrs Linnet's Meat Pies."

_Tomorrow?!_ Susan thought, and tried to stop her eyes widening. Was the man mad?Sweeney turned again to the Beadle, an almost predatory smirk on his features. "And to you, Mr Bamford, I extend the invitation of the closest shave you will ever know, for not a penny's charge!"

"A generous offer, sir, and one I intend to take you up on." Bamford inclined his head, and Susan felt sick to her stomach when she saw the look he gave her as his eyes slid across to her body. "I guarantee you will see my before the week is out."

"We look forward to receiving your patronage." Sweeney answered. Susan wanted to say something, knowing she looked curiously nervous, but she couldn't bring herself to utter a single syllable, lest the Beadle should recognise her voice. It was a foolish fear, but one she found impossible to beat down nonetheless. Finally, she managed to speak in a strangled voice.

"Well, we 'ave to be goin' now. Pies to make, shops to ready… I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, Ma'am." Bamford reached for Susan's hand and kissed it, causing the redhead to choke back a retch and use all her willpower to refrain from snatching her hand back. "Although, forgive me if I am mistaken, but your face seems known to me."

For a split-second, Susan froze, cursing silently. She wanted to run, get as far away as possible, sure that she was found out.

Instead she forced a sincere smile, although she felt Sweeney tense beside her.

"Ah, that'd prob'ly be me cousin you're mixin' me up with, sir." Susan replied with a forced smile. "Ev'ryone says I'm a dead ringer for 'er, though o' course now I'm thoroughly shamed to eb related to 'er. P'rhaps you knew 'er? Eleanor Lovett, 'er name was."

"Yes, that was the one." Bamford looked somewhat embarrassed. "Forgive me that grievous error, Ma'am, I did not mean to insinuate you were her."

"S'all right, Mr Bamford. I'm glad we got it cleare dup 'ere an' now, actually, 'fore the gossips 'ave a go." Another bright, forced smile, and the deception was complete. Susan mentally congratulated herself.

"Come on, Mrs Linnet. As you said, we must return." Sweeney's voice was almost a growl, but thankfully the Beadle didn't notice.

* * *

The two made their way back to the shop as quickly as possible, and as soon as they were inside, Susan grabbed the bottle of gin and poured herself a glass, downing it in one, her hands shaking slightly. The turmoil of paranoia, fear, and nerves she'd been repressing were coming back. Sweeney sat opposite her, an apologetic look on his face.

"I'm sorry you had to be anywhere near him." The barber said, his voice sincerely apologetic. "But…"

"I know." Susan replied. "It would'a looked suspicious if I wasn't there. What we need to worry 'bout _now_ is gettin' enough meat pies ready for tomorrow, so's I can be open like _someone_ said I would be, even though I 'ave no _meat_, nor any other ingredients, come to that."

Sweeney's expression shifted from apologetic to almost sheepish.

"Will five pounds be enough?"

"It'll 'ave to be, won't it, Mr I-plan-ahead." Susan grumbled, though she couldn't muffle the good-natured tone in her voice, reminded of their antics years ago as teenagers. "Let me finish me gin, an' we'll go to the market."


	7. Chapter 6: Brand New Recipe

A/N: First of all, sorry you guys. I know I said to a lot of you I'd get thsi up before the weekend but life's kinda crazy right now. I have my exams next week, and I'm pretty much losing track of time amongst revision and such.

Anyway, this is the chapter I've been looking forward to writing since I started this fic. Or, more specifically, the scene that's the equivelant of A Little Priest. Buuuut, I'm not entirely happy with how it came out. D: Howver, I have a feeling you'll like the ending.

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Brand New Recipe**

**OoOoOoOoO**

After wandering around the market for a good hour, Susan was despairing, and ready to throttle Sweeney for announcing they'd open the next day. Oh, it was all right for _him_, _he_ had all the things he needed to do shaves. All right, he didn't have anything fancy, but still. She had five pounds to spend on ingredients for pastry, some food for Sweeney and herself, and meat to put in the pies.

The first two things were accomplished with relative ease, leaving Susan with plenty of money for meat – or so she thought. What the baker didn't know was that the price had meat had not just doubled but tripled in the time she'd been gone, and the quality had gone down to boot. When the first butcher she spoke to offered her what he said was a joint of lamb but looked more like it was from a dog for the 'bargain price' of three pounds, Susan laughed in his face.

Now she was walking hopelessly around the market, hoping for a miracle, when she was approached by an aging woman, her greying hair tied back in a bun and her dress patched and darned. She smiled at Susan, but had few teeth.

"Oi, ain't you that woman who was with that barber who beat Pirelli earlier?" She demanded. Susan nodded.

"Yes, that was me." She answered. "Why?"

The woman shook Susan's hand, smiling wider.

"Emily Mooney, m'dear. I own the pie shop 'round the corner."

"I remember you!" Susan exclaimed. God, the woman had changed a lot in ten years! The Mrs Mooney Susan had known before her transportation had been considerably more padded, and looked a lot better off. Maybe the rising meat prices were affecting everyone. Mrs Mooney looked at Susan oddly.

"'Aven't seen you before." She commented, and Susan immediately realise dher mistake.

"Er, yeah, um, I meant me cousin mentioned you once. Yeah, that's it." Susan gave a small shaky laugh. "Sorry, I don't make any sense sometimes."

"Don't worry, love." Mrs Mooney cackled. "I've been watching you for a bit, an' you seem to be 'avin' a meat problem."

"Just a bit." Susan sighed, and decided to let Mrs Mooney in a little on her problem – the two women had been casual friends before Susan's transportation. "Me tenant, Mr Todd, 'ad the fabulous idea o' tellin' ev'ryone we were openin' tomorrow, but I didn't know 'ow 'igh meat prices were."

"Well there's ways 'round that, m'dear." The older woman nodded knowledgeably. "If you get me drift."

As she spoke, Mrs Mooney's eyes drifted to a passing cat. It was a pathetic thing, hopelessly thin and with scraggly, dirty fur, but the woman eyed it with a calculating look. Suddenly something clicked in Susan's mind, and she gave a soft 'ah' of realisation. A smirk spread over her face. It made sense, after all. Susan remembered how one year on Devil's Isle there had been a food shortage due to ships carrying provisions being wrecked before they arrived, and the convicts had killed anything edible to use – possums, fish, strange birds… one man even shot a kangaroo.

"I'll keep it in mind." The baker promised, and then peered amongst the stores and spotted a familiar, black-haired head. "Oh, I'll 'ave to be goin'."

"Good luck." The older baker said, and then ambled off after the cat she'd been following with her eyes. Susan allowed herself a small chuckle and then approached her barber.

* * *

"So, we need meat, we can't afford it, and we're opening in the morning?"

They were back at the shop, sat at the table, drinking gin gloomily. Susan had guessed the need for it, and bought more at the market.

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"S'alright, love."

"I'm an idiot, aren't I?" Sweeney ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "It just seemed a good idea at the time."

"Well…" Susan stared down into her gin. "We'll do it. Somehow. I could… I dunno, do like Mrs Mooney an' use pussies."

Sweeney wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I had one of her pies once. It was awful."

"Could add… what's the word?" Susan paused, tapping her fingers on the wooden table for a few moments as she thought. "Novelty value. That's it. Y'know… _These are prob'ly the worst pies in London._"

"_I know why nobody cares to take them._" Sweeney joined in.

"_I_ should _know – I make 'em. But good? No!_"

"_The worst pies in London._" Both of them sang, out of tune, but ending up laughing.

"_E'en that's polite. The worst pies in London. If you doubt it take a bite…_" Susan shook her head. "I dunno why we're jokin' 'bout it – may yet come to that."

"When times are hard, sometimes all you can do is laugh." Sweeney replied with a shrug. "So… what are we going to do?"

"I 'onestly don't know." Susan hunched over her drink, chin in her hands. "Maybe we should just 'ope for a miracle."

Little did they know that a miracle was what they would get…

* * *

The rest of the day rolled by quickly, as Susan prepared pie crusts, and Sweeney added the final touches to his shop. Both baker and barber dwelled endlessly on the problem of meat, and Mrs Mooney's words kept coming back to Susan. _Well there's ways 'round that, m'dear. If you get me drift._

_Ways indeed._ Susan thought moodily. _I can't believe I'm thinkin' this, but for once I think this'd be easier in Australia. London's lackin' in possums._

The baker returned to her work, and by the time night came, the sky and streets darkening, she had decided she would have to get up early the next morning and catch some cats. Instead of sitting in the actual shop, that evening Susan and Sweeney sat in the small lounge area, on the comfortable sofa, watching flames crackle in the fireplace. Susan gave a weary sigh and rested her head on Sweeney's shoulder. It was gone eleven already, and neither had even contemplated sleeping.

"We're in a right mess." She observed. Sweeney slipped an arm around her waist, giving her a friendly squeeze.

"Easy now, hush, love, hush. Don't distress yourself, what's your rush?" He whispered softly into her ear. "Keep your thoughts nice and lush. Wait, and it'll all come right."

"I 'ope so." Susan muttered. "But unless some meat magically appears in the shop, I dunno 'ow-"

She was cut off sharply as the quiet atmosphere was shattered by the sound of tinkling glass, a soft curse, and soft footsteps. Sweeney's hold on her tightened, and Susan's breath caught in her throat, her paranoia rushing back for a moment before she remembered the police were fans of making a lot of noise. The answer came to them both at the same time.

"Burglar." Sweeney breathed, and Susan nodded in agreement. "Wait here."

The barber stood silently, his hand straying to his hip, where Susan saw he had a razor in a holster. Her eyes widened.

"Don't do anythin' rash, love." She said, so quietly the words were barely there, but she knew Sweeney had heard her, even if he didn't acknowledge the words directly.

* * *

The barber opened the door of the lounge a tiny way, peering through the crack and his eyes alighted upon the burglar. The man was on the tall side, but running to fat. His back was thankfully to the door, and he seemed under the impression that the inhabitants of the shop were asleep. Sweeney didn't catch all the words the man muttered to himself, but he got the gist, and it made his hand tighten on the razor at his hip. Nobody spoke about his Susan like that. A vein began to stand out on his forehead as he heard what the man had planned for the beautiful baker sat on the sofa.

Advancing silently, Sweeney was all of three feet from the burglar when he stepped on a creaky floorboard, and the sound seemed amplified in the silent night. The man whirled around immediately, a knife shining in his hand. His expression was torn between shock and anger.

"Who are you?" Sweeney asked, his voice as cold and dark as he could get it. It was easy to get it like that – all he needed to do was think of Lucy and the Judge. "What are you doing in here?"

"Stay back!" The man threatened, his voice shaking a little.

"Get out – now! Before I call the constabulary." Sweeney took another step forwards and raised his razor just enough for it to glint in the moonlight. "Or worse…"

The colour fled from the burglar's face, and then returned a moment later as he smirked confidently.

"You wouldn't dare." The man raised his knife threateningly, and for a moment Sweeney – though he would never admit it – faltered. This man would kill him without a second's thought, but the barber didn't know if he could return the favour. He also thought he saw something slip past him out of the corner of his eye, but attributed it to the constantly shifting shadows thanks to the moon.

"Maybe, maybe not." Sweeney growled. "D'you want to stop and find out?"

What happened next blurred together in such a whirl it took Sweeney several seconds to sort out the order of events. The burglar hesitated for a moment and then jumped forwards, knife raised, and faltering with the blade less than an inch from Sweeney's chest, emitting a strangled groan, and falling to the floor, revealing a very angry Susan holding a rolling pin. For a few moments they were silent, and then Sweeney cursed when he noticed two significant details.

There was blood around the burglar's head and on Susan's rolling pin.

And the man wasn't breathing.

Sweeney raised his eyes and met Susan's. They both glanced back at the man and then back at each other, then said the same thing at the same moment.

"Oh shit."

* * *

Gin was called for. Susan reflected how bizarre it was to be sat at a table drinking with a dead body not ten feet away. The rolling pin she had killed him with was on the counter abandoned like something contaminated. After almost five minutes of silence, she had to say something.

"Now." Susan gulped, trying to retain her calm demeanour. "We've got a dead body. What're we gonna do 'bout it?"

"I'll take it to some secret place and bury it." Sweeney replied immediately. "Best get it done with as soon as possible. Someone might have heard him breaking in. We need to be prepared for someone coming poking their nose in tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." Susan echoed the word. "That'll ruin the business if the pies don't." She gave a shaky, high-pitched laugh. "An' still no meat 'ere."

_Or is there?_

Susan tensed at the thought. Tested it out. Rolled it around in her mind. It should have disgusted her. She should have repelled it to the back of her mind, never to be seen again. But…

_Well there's ways 'round that, m'dear. If you get me drift._

"Susan?" Sweeney was looking at her, his face concerned, and mildly apprehensive. "You've got that look on your face…"

"I think I've got a solution to our problems." She smirked. "Humour me a minute."

Susan stood up and stood by one of the windows, peering out.

"Oh, what's the sound o' the world out there?" Her voice was calm, almost lilting, as if bordering on singing. "What, Mr T, what Mr T, what is that sound?"

"I… wouldn't know." Sweeney replied carefully, but smirked slightly at his new nickname. Susan had been testing it all afternoon at the market.

"Those crunchin' noises pervadin' the air." Susan urged, and glanced at her friend, sighing in irritation when she saw he wasn't catching on to her train of thought. "It's man devourin' man, m'dear. An' who are we to deny it in 'ere?"

The baker wandered to the centre of the room, as if in a dream, and certainly she was glancing around as if she could already see customers.

"We might not 'ave no meat, but there's ways an' means o' getting' 'round that, my love." The baker turned to Sweeney and fixed him with an intense stare. "Think o' it as thrift, as a gift… if you get me drift…"

"Susan, I can honestly say I have no idea what you're talking about." Sweeney commented, his brow furrowed. "You're making no sense!"

"Hush, love, hush, think it through." The redhead urged. "I mean, with the price o' meat what it is, when you get it, if you get it." Susan gave the corpse a small kick. "Such a nice plump frame what's-'is-name has. An' I doubt 'e's got any family that's gonna come 'round lookin' for im."

Susan smiled as a look of comprehension dawned on the barber's face. For a moment she was afraid he would react as she should have – with disgust – but after several long moments he smirked and leapt up, walking over and taking her by the hand.

"Susan, my love, you're a bloody wonder. Eminently practical and always appropriate."

"Finally got it?" The baker asked teasingly as Sweeney slipped a hand around her waist and began to waltz with her. The craziness of the situation didn't phase her – it seemed like crazy would soon become the norm around this place.

"Yes, Mrs Linnet, Yes, Mrs Linnet, yes all around."

"It'll be better than Mrs Mooney's shop. 'Cause while a pussy's good for maybe six or seven at the most, I'm sure they can't compare so far as taste!"

"A completely charming notion. My dear, how we did without each other all these years I'll never know!"

"Don't 'ave to stop 'ere, Sweeney. Think o' all them gentlemen that'll soon be comin' for a shave!"

"Yes indeed."

"Think o' all them _pies_!"

The two stopped, faced only two inches apart. Susan noted the look in her friend's eyes – almost wild, animalistic and yet so beautiful, and intelligent. They seemed to be frozen in that position, until Sweeney took the initiative and pressed their lips together.

The kiss wasn't as she'd imagined it would be. Rather than sweet and soft it was powerful and almost harsh, but Susan knew she wouldn't want it any other way. She'd heard that when you met 'the one' your legs went weak, and this was certainly happening now. Susan slipped her arms around the barber's neck as he angled her face better. Sparks seem to pass between them, like static. It was almost as if they were opposing poles on a magnet – it might take some doing for them to find each other, but once together they were all but impossible to get apart. Susan knew that if it weren't an automatic reaction, she would have forgotten to breathe,

When they finally broke apart, Susan felt light-headed and had to use all her willpower to keep from stumbling. Clearing her throat quietly, and not quite meeting Sweeney's eyes, she glanced towards the corpse of the burglar.

"Right then. I'll, um, take 'im down to the bake 'ouse then. Get the pies made." Susan giggled. "Brand new recipe."

Sweeney smirked and kissed her again, but this time it was only brief.

"Of course, my love."


	8. Chapter 7: Things Are Never What They

A/N: Sorry about the big gap between chapters! (Grovels) I got a slight case of writer's block half way through this chapter and it didn't budge until today. Anyway, the mystery of what happened while Susan was in Australia unwinds a little more. But... our favourite baker is slightly bipolar in this chapter, methinks.

Also, I have another Sweeney Todd multi-chap, Behind The Mask Of Misery. it's like a Sweeney Todd version of Phantom of the Opera... only different xD I don't really know how to explain it, but please go check it out. Another chapter will be coming slowly.

* * *

**Chapter 7 – Things Are Never What They Seem**

**OoOoOoOoO**

By two o'clock the next day, Susan was sure she was dreaming. She'd head business. Business! And not just a little trickle of people, like she had, in all honesty, expected. No, business had bloody well _boomed_. Twice she had had to rush down between rushes of people during the lunch hour to hurriedly make more pies and shove them in the oven, thanking God fervently each time that the burglar had been running, leaping and _bounding_ to fat.

Thankfully, the river of people had thinned out, and now there were only about half a dozen people in the shop. Susan wondered idly if she should close earlier than planned, seeing as she was rather dangerously low on pies. But those thoughts were flung from her mind as her eyes drifted to the window and she saw Pirelli approaching the shop, the young blonde boy by his side.

"Oh, what can 'e want?" The baker muttered to herself. "I 'ope whate'er it is don't take long, or Sweeney may just 'ave 'is 'ead." She paused, and then gave a small chuckle. "Or whate'er."

But rather than go up to the barbershop, Pirelli flamboyantly entered the pie shop. After taking several deep breaths and making sure she was perfectly calm, Susan gave the conman a wide smile.

"'Ello, sir, what can I do you for? Pie, p'rhaps?"

"No, Mrs-a Linnet." Pirelli waved a hand. "I am-a here on-a more-a serious business."

"Oh." Susan gestured towards the door. "Well Mr Todd's upstairs, but I think 'e's with a customer at the mo'."

"It is not-a Mr-a Todd I wish-a to-a speak to." The Italian gave Susan a significant look, and the baker had the sudden feeling that whatever the man was going to say, she didn't want to hear it – but she could think of no excuse that would allow her to simply shove him out of the shop. She couldn't say she was busy when she'd just been enjoying a break. So instead, she plastered another false smile on her face.

"Right, we can talk in the back." Susan glanced at the boy. "'Ow 'bout you 'ave a pie o' two while we're busy, eh?"

"Really Ma'am?" The boy's face lit up with joy. "Thank you!"

Susan chuckled, placed two pies on a plate and gave them to the lad on the house. He looked like he needed the food more than she needed the money after all. Then, acknowledging Pirelli's fidgeting, she deemed she couldn't put this off any longer and lead the Italian into the small living room.

"Alright, what d'you 'ave to say?" Susan asked, now deeply suspicious. Pirelli sighed and pulled at the cloak tied around him.

"Hang on, just let me take this off, I'm boiling." The conman removed his cloak and put it on the back of a chair, his accent disappearing – replaced by a London one. Susan stared.

"You… What 'appened to your accent?" She demanded. "Who _are_ you?"

"Name's Davy Connor when it's not professional, Ma'am." Pirelli – or rather Connor – re-introduced himself politely. Slowly, a connection formed in Susan's mind, and then she had it. Clicking her fingers, the baker smiled, clean forgetting who she was pretending to be.

"Li'l Davy! I remember you, you 'elped Mr Barker that summer, sweepin' up the 'air. I used to give you a pie ev'ry lunch… time… Oh damn…" Susan trailed off slowly as she realised she had given herself away, and wondered if she could kill Connor with the bottle of gin on the table before he got away and without alerting the customers. But rather than shock, she saw triumph on Connor's face.

"Don't worry, Ma'am, I already knew. And about Mr Barker upstairs" He assured her, as Susan sank into another chair. "Actually, that was my reason for coming."

"Why? Turnin' us in are you?" Susan massaged her temples, knowing she was walking a thin line between unnatural serenity and hysterical fear. "'Ow the 'ell did'ya e'en know? We were bein' careful…"

Connor shrugged.

"I'm not here to turn you in, Ma'am. And as for guessing… Well for one thing I recognised Mr Barker's razors. Chased silver costs a fair bit, 'specially these days, and if you don't mind me saying so, Ma'am, family resemblance didn't really wash."

Susan only half-heard Connor's words after he said he wasn't going to turn them in. A weight was lifted from her shoulders, but there still remained the issue of what he wanted in the first place. The redhead wasn't as worried as she could have been, because the Davy Connor who'd worked in the barber shop one summer had been a good lad at heart, polite and smart – and from the current conversation, it seemed he had kept those qualities, at least when he wasn't playing the part of Pirelli.

"So if you're not 'ere to turn us in… why?" Susan felt herself regaining some form of control over the situation and was determined to exercise it as much as possible. Connor hesitated for several moments before speaking.

"Well, no disrespect to Mr or Mrs Barker, but a couple of years after…" He vaguely gestured and gave Susan a meaningful look. "Miss Lucy kept going off on her own, meeting friends and the like. I only heard this second-hand, you understand, but I'm inclined to believe it."

"Believe what?" Susan was bemused now. True, Lucy had never been that much of a socialite, but neither was she without friends – most of them foppish, whom she had met through her parents' friends.

"Lucy was having an affair with Judge Turpin."

Susan stared. And stared. And then laughed. It was a strangled sort of sound, forced out so she wouldn't have the even attempt to believe the ludicrous statement Connor had spoken.

"Now that's just plain nonsense." The baker stood up and made for the door. "If you've dragged me away from me customers just to spout a load o' rubbish, then I'll be goin' back."

"Wait, listen to me!" Connor stood also, and made to block her way, but one look at Susan's face and he seemed to remember what she'd been transported for, and sensibly stepped back a little. Susan leant against the closed door, arms folded. "That's not the end of it. Nobody knows for certain, but it's one of those things that are just certain. Mr Barker found out and-"

Susan clapped her hands over her ears.

"Not another word!" She fumed. "Now out! Out!" She physically shoved the fake Italian form the room. "I'll not 'ave that sort o' talk in me shop, thank you very much!"

"I'm trying to help!" Connor whispered frantically, obviously not wanting the curious customers to hear him. "You were always a good person, Ma'am, and I've heard things about Benjamin Barker that'd make your hair curl."

"Out!" Susan gave him another shove. "An' don't come back." In the same breath and turned and smiled indulgingly at the young boy, who was sat, petrified, at a table. "Not you o' course, love, you come back any time you want."

He nodded but scooted after Connor instantly. Susan glanced around at her customers, who seemed slightly edgy. Surely she wasn't that scary, was she? Deciding that divisionary tactics would be best, she forced a smile.

"Anyone for another pie?"

* * *

That evening, after the last of the punters had left the shop, leaving compliments about her fantastic pies in her wake, Sweeney descended from his own shop and slumped onto a seat. Susan couldn't stop a smirk gracing her lips – her friend looked like she felt: absolutely worn out.

"'Ow many customers did you get, love?" She asked, pouring two glasses of gin and setting one in front of the dark-haired barber.

"Too many to count." He grunted, downing the spirit in one gulp. "God, that's good. Anyway, I need your help once it gets darker."

"Oh yeah?" Susan was now busying herself washing the dishes that had become dirtied during the day. "What for?"

"Killed another man for the pies." Sweeney muttered, and then stared at Susan as, after a moment of two, she cracked up laughing, holding her stomach and clutching the counter in order to support herself. For several seconds, all she could do was laugh, the sound bubbling up in her throat every time she tried to stop. The baker was aware Sweeney thought she had gone mad, but try as she might, she couldn't smother the mirth that came from hearing him declare he'd committed a murder as if it was as casual a thing as butchering a pig.

"Are you quite finished?" Sweeney asked a couple of minutes later, when Susan had managed to pull herself together.

"Yes." She answered, her face still pulled into a smile.

"Then what, pray tell, was so funny?"

Susan explained her thoughts to him, but her mind wasn't really on the conversation. It was on the barber himself. How his eyes were intense and questioning, how his pale skin contrasted so sharply with his dark, unruly hair, with that odd white streak running through it… When she came out of her reverie, Susan was aware Sweeney had just said something, but she hadn't the slightest idea what it was.

"What was that, love?" She queried, only to have Sweeney roll his eyes at the ceiling.

"I said, we'll have to find a way of getting the bodies down to the bake house. A way that doesn't involve carrying them down the stairs at the dead of night. Besides." The man wrinkled his nose in distaste. "My bedroom will start smelling like corpses… What?"

Susan had been staring at him, several conflicting thoughts echoing in her mind - foremost among them how Sweeney seemed so relaxed about killing. At the last word, she smiled.

"Nothin', just me funny ol' ways Sweeney." She hastily turned around and focused her attention on the dirty dishes. "Anyway, must be getting' on, work to do an' all."

"Alright…" Susan could feel Sweeney's eyes boring into her back, could imagine perfectly the confused expression on his face. "Anything I can do?"

"No, it's fine." The redhead trilled. "You go an' 'ave a sit down. You look as if you've been run off your feet all day."

"Not as much as you have." Sweeney stood, and Susan heard him begin to gather the plates she hadn't yet collected. She dropped the plate she'd been holding back into the water and whirled around.

"Really! It's fine!" She grinned. "Go on, 'ave another gin an' all. Celebrate our first successful day o' business."

Sweeney stopped what he'd been doing and gave her a long look that made her squirm slightly. He was doing it again. He was looking into her head and finding out exactly what she was thinking.

"You're acting very strangely." He commented at last, his voice tight and holding a note of accusation. Susan opened her mouth to say something – anything – but he didn't give her chance. "I saw that Italian come by earlier. Did he say something?"

For a moment, a silence stretched between them, awkward and frozen, and then Susan's mouth let loose a torrent of words of its own accord.

"'Im? Nah, just comin' by to 'ave a pie. Well, that's what 'e said, o' course, but it was obvious 'e was just sufferin' from a case o' sour grapes. Prob'ly wanted to see if 'e could find somethin' to report to Bamford o' what'e'er."

Susan was stunned by the lie she'd spoken without meaning to. Sweeney looked a little taken-aback too, and she decided to press the advantage.

"An' anyway, what would 'e 'ave said?" She plastered a smile on her face. "Now come on, you're just a bit jumpy, love."

"I… suppose you're right." Sweeney gave in, but Susan didn't fail to catch the look of suspicion that temporarily clouded his eyes as he refilled his glass with gin and retreated to the lounge.

As she cleaned, those thoughts that had been fighting each other in Susan's mind made themselves hear din turn. Part of Susan – the part governed by her intuition – told her Sweeney was hiding something, something to do with Lucy, and what had happened in the ten years she'd been gone. The other part – the part in love with him – told her not to be ridiculous. Of course he wasn't hiding anything! The very idea in itself was laughable. He'd told her everything that morning when they'd come into the shop. But…

But he'd never mentioned what happened to Johanna.

Explainable enough. She could have met a man and left.

But he'd have told her that one bit of good news.

He probably expected she was smart enough to work it out. Perhaps he hadn't fully approved of the boy and was feeling sore.

But Benjamin Barker would never allow Johanna to marry a boy he didn't feel would be perfect for her.

Johanna was practically a grown woman. She was old enough to make her own choices in life.

But he acted to strangely.

So? Everyone was entitled to at times. She'd acted suspiciously enough right now.

But what about what Connor said?

Hearsay and gossip. She'd known enough of it herself as Nellie Lovett.

But what about that last sentence? _Mr Barker found out and-_ And what?

And _nothing_! He loved Lucy. Besides, even if it is true – which it isn't – why would he have looked after her so well when she got ill?

Susan sighed and closed her eyes, taking deep even breaths, trying to end this confusing inner debate. She was allowing her entire perspective of her best friend be changed by one rumour. One silly little rumour. By God, if she'd let every rumour she'd heard in her time affect her opinion of people, she'd believe the gentry slept in solid gold beds, that the butcher was having an affair with the stable boy, and that Mrs Mooney was a witch from Scandinavia.

Two strong arms slid around her small waist and hugged her, as a voice whispered softly in her ear.

"Talk to me, Susan."

She bit down on her lip, not knowing what to say.

"Please." Sweeney urged. "God, I hate seeing you like this. I feel like I've done something, and I've no idea what."

"Not your fault." Susan whispered. "I'm just… just… oh, 'ell if I know!" She withdrew her hands from the cooling water and wiped them on her apron. "It's just… I think I've forgotten just what London's like." It wasn't really a lie.

"Anything else?" God, his voice was gorgeous.

"No." Susan managed to keep her tone even. "Nothin'."

She could tell he didn't entirely believe her, so she pulled away gently, only for Sweeney to step in front of her and hold her shoulders, staring intensely into her eyes. Eventually he sighed and glanced away.

"Sorry." He muttered. "I'm…" The barber gestured vaguely. Susan smiled weakly.

"Don't worry 'bout it." She advised, and, seeing the expression on the man's face and knowing she'd at least partly caused it, hugged him before she'd thought the action through. Sweeney stiffened momentarily, and then tentatively returned the action. For a while they simply stood like that, arms around each other, neither knowing what to think, feel or say. Eventually Sweeney released the redheaded baker and leaned in to kiss her, only to be pushed away.

"Sweeney…" Susan paused, not knowing quite how to phrase this. "I… Look, please don't, unless you really mean it."

She immediately regretted the words, as an indignant fire blazed in the barber's eyes.

"Susan… do you think I would just kiss any woman? Do you think you don't mater to me? That… Ugh!" He turned away, as if to leave. Frantically, Susan stepped forwards and grabbed his arm.

"That's not what I meant!" She gabbled. "But… Oh, I don't know 'ow to explain… Sweeney, I've lost so much since I came back, I don't want to lose me only friend too."

Sweeney didn't move or speak, and Susan felt terror grip her heart, convinced her words would drive him off, but finally he sighed and ran a hand through his already wild hair. Heartened somewhat by this, Susan carried on.

"If you kiss me, I need to know it's forever."

* * *

Sweeney heard those words, and realised what she needed to hear before either of them did anything else. And he understood perfectly why she needed to hear them. So much change, so much death had entered her life, he was the only constant left. How many times had he heard the phrase 'love can ruin a friendship'? Yet when it came to the time to apply it, he forgot… Part of the barber was still wondering how Susan couldn't see he loved her, but another part wondered if she could, but needed to hear the words to confirm it.

And yet…

He hated himself for it, but he couldn't say the words yet. He loved her, yes, but something refused to let him tell her so. Perhaps it was his paranoia wondering what she thought of him, fearing rejection… and curious about what had made her so jumpy. Pirelli had said something to her, that much was certain. The only question was how much had he said…

Surely it wasn't too much, or else, knowing Susan, she'd have confronted him about it as soon as he came downstairs. So perhaps just enough to plant the slightest seed of doubt. Sweeney's fists clenched. He'd have to pay a little visit to the Italian…

But now for the matter at hand. He turned back to the baker and reached for her hands.

"I've always had a fondness for you." He murmured. It wasn't what she needed. But it was all he could give. Before Susan could respond, he left, escaped back to his solitude, the voice in the back of his mind calling him a coward as he went.


	9. Chapter 8: A Bloody Fate

A/N: Sorry in advance. I know people have been waiting, and what you get is, essentially, a filler chapter. A short filler chapter at that. (hides) Sorry, but I promise the next chapter will be longer and more interesting. I would include a warning for those with weak stomachs, but seeing as this is a Sweeney Todd story, that's kind of redundant P

* * *

**Chapter 8 - A Bloody Fate**

**OoOoOoOoO**

That evening, Susan busied herself cutting up the man Sweeney had killed. She noticed with a smirk that it was a man who had made several inappropriate comments earlier that day when he came in for a pie. Sweeney had his own unique way of defending her honour, it seemed. Or, given the awkward encounter earlier, it could just be a coincidence.

The baker sighed and paused in the midst of cutting an arm off the man – Albert, if nothing else, had taught her how to butcher an animal – considering what exactly had happened earlier. Had she been pushing it, asking him to tell her he loved her? She could see in his eyes that he realised that was what she'd wanted, but no. He just _had a fondness_ for her. And then he'd run out, as if finding the situation too awkward, too intimate. She wondered why she hadn't realised before – the times they spent laughing together, they were just friendly moments, where they were completely open with each other in the way only best friends were.

Susan tried to console herself by thinking that maybe it was better this way. This was what she'd wanted in the first place, after all. Two friends, living side by side and supporting each other, and not going any further than that. So why did she feel so disappointed – cheated, even?

The redhead snorted slightly in disdain at her own pitiful attempts at denial. She was in love with him. Of course she was. She had been almost since she first laid eyes on him. She was completely head over heels for the man, and he just 'had a fondness' for her. Well. She would manage. She would carry on and not let anyone see how she was feeling. She'd done it in Australia, hadn't she? And she could do it again.

Her resolve hardened, Susan resumed the task of turning a man into several dozen meat pies. The job didn't sicken her so long as she considered the body before her that of a large pig. And once the clothes were gone, it was surprisingly easy to delude herself.

* * *

Sweeney was furious at himself. As soon as it had gotten dark enough for them not to be noticed, Susan had come up, stone faced and sober, to help him move the body downstairs. He'd seen her expression flicker for a moment when she saw who the man was, and wondered if he should comment, but then her features returned to looking as if they were carved out of ice, and he'd swallowed the words. How ridiculous would it have sounded anyway? 'When he came up for a shave, he commented on your arse, so I killed him for you.' He doubted that would go down well.

As he paced around his shop, the barber wondered if he was destined to never be completely happy with a woman he loved. First, Lucy betrayed him… digging into his heart, torturing him beyond belief. Now he'd lost his chance with Susan by the looks of things, due to his own foolishness. Sweeney knew immediately which he considered the greater tragedy. With a sigh – a mixture of anger and frustration directed purely at himself – he slumped into the barber chair, letting sleep take him. And in the cooking pot if dreams, nightmares, and unwelcome memories, Sweeney Todd plotted and planned – and when he awoke, it was with a predatory smirk. Maybe he couldn't undo the damage he'd – and perhaps Pirelli – had caused… but he could certainly stop the Italian making things worse. He just needed to find a few things out... perhaps the boy...

* * *

The next day Susan woke early, a throwback to getting into the habit of waking before the day was too hot, and washed and dressed quickly, making a mental note to get a new dress once she had chance. Money wouldn't be a problem if she kept as much as she had done yesterday, and really if she was going to run a successful business, Susan believed it would help if she didn't look as if she was wearing a dress ten years old – despite the fact that was the truth.

As the baker walked into the shop, she decided that perhaps it was best if both she and Sweeney forgot about the little… situation the previous night. But how to make it clear she wanted to forget about it without actually mentioning it? Thinking, Susan busied herself getting out some plates and mugs for the customers, when it came to her. Of course! She could simply make breakfast for her friend, take it up with a bright sunny smile, and drop a few subtle hints. Most men probably wouldn't pick up on that – but then Sweeney wasn't 'most men'. Far from it, in fact. Susan smirked as the contents of the meat pies came to mind. Yes, surely that would work.

Soon, there was a pot of porridge cooking away nicely on the small stove she had in the shop to keep the pies warm – Susan remembered it was the barber's favourite – and the redhead was busy searching the cupboards to see if she had any honey or jam – and at the same time wondering if that was going a bit far. Eventually she decided it was – plus, she didn't have anything sweet anyway – and so took up to the barbershop a bowl of porridge and a mug of ale, hoping she was in the right.

However, it soon became clear that Susan needn't have bothered trying to smooth things over between her and her barber – for Sweeney wasn't in his shop. As she entered, pushing the door open with her hip as she needed both hands for the tray, Susan hadn't even looked at the shop, so certain was she that the barber would be there.

"Brought you a bit o' breakfast, love." She announced. "Porridge, just the way you like to. O' used to, anyways. Figured you might want somethin' to keep you goin', what with all the business you're gettin'…" Susan trailed off as she realised that not only had she received no reply, not so much as a grunt of acknowledgement, but as she looked around at last, the shop was completely empty. For a moment, she simply felt foolish for talking to thin air, but then the real problem struck her. Where was Sweeney? She temporarily entertained the theory that he had thought the situation between them too awkward to even stay in the shop, but she dismissed it out of hand – all his things were still in their right places, including his razors. True, one was missing, but Susan knew by now that the barber preferred to keep one on him at all times, for his own reasons.

Then the obvious hit her. Of course – it really was quite early! What if Sweeney was still in bed? Susan giggled a little to herself at the thought as she set the tray down on top of the chest that, ten years before, she had dubbed Benjamin Barker's 'random little things chest', something that was certain to wring at the very least a wry smile out of the man, even at his gloomiest moments. The baker knew that really she should go back downstairs in order to refrain from disturbing her friend if he was indeed asleep, but the imp in her urged her to take at least a small peek. So, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, Susan walked carefully across the shop- avoiding the floorboards she knew were creaky – and gently pushed open the door to Sweeney's bedroom.

It was empty.

For several seconds Susan merely stared as her brain processed this new, confusing information. Along with the significant lack of a dark-haired barber, the bed didn't look as if it had been slept in at all. The baker narrowed her eyes as she swept her gaze over every inch of the room, wondering if Sweeney was stood around a corner to give her a shock, but then realised that was ridiculous.

But where was the man? Susan returned to the main shop and sat down in the barber chair, mulling over the possibilities. She knew he hadn't come down to her level to sit in the living room, because she'd had to walk through there to get from her bedroom to the shop. So if he wasn't up here, and he wasn't downstairs… where was he? What if he'd gone completely mad and had murdered someone in the street. What if he was in the Old Bailey now, awaiting trial? What if he'd already been hung?

Then she happened to notice that Sweeney's jacket was missing from where he usually left it, and the obvious hit her, leaving the redhead feeling ridiculous. Of course, Sweeney had just gone for a walk. Laughing weakly, Susan stood and shook her head. She really did have an overactive imagination. Honestly, the man murdered two men so she could set up business, and there she was thinking all sorts about him.

But now the question was… what should she do until it was time to open up shop? There were hours yet, and she had nobody to talk to, nothing to do… Susan sighed and considered her options before, with a smirk, deciding that if Sweeney could go out without so much as a note or a fare-thee-well, so could she. Of course, it wouldn't have the same effect, but it was something. So, returning downstairs to grab her shawl, the baker set off for stroll, not sure where she was going, but enjoying the freedom.

* * *

Davy Connor froze as he heard soft, barely audible footfalls behind him. He knew immediately it wasn't Toby – for a start, the boy wasn't naturally quiet, and for another, he knew for a fact he'd sent the boy off to do what he wished today – so, preparing for the worst, he turned around slowly.

It was a lot worse than what he'd prepared for.

Sweeney Todd – or rather, Benjamin Barker – was stood just inside the caravan, leaning against the doorframe. His face was twisted into a dark, predatory smirk, like the one a wolf would give before it struck and killed its prey, and the man's body language was tight, as if he was barely restraining himself. His eyes, though… they were what really scared Connor. They were black holes, bottomless and emotionless… no, that wasn't quite true. There was emotion in those pits – but it was bloodlust, pure and simple.

"Signor Pirelli…" He drawled.

"Mr Todd." Connor replied, his Italian accent in place, hoping he could bluff his way out of this. "To what-a do I-a owe-a da pleasure?"

"What did you say to her?" Todd growled, and Connor knew, in a moment of utter clarity, that – one way or another – he wasn't leaving this caravan alive. Even so – true to form – he tried to talk his way out. He was a natural actor, and he was damned if he wasn't going to use those skills now.

"I'm-a sorry, but I-a have-a no idea what-a you mean." Connor forced a wide, fake smile. "Perhaps you are-a mistaken."

"Perhaps I am." Todd took a step forwards, and Connor automatically took one backwards. Todd's smirk widened fractionally. "But I don't think so."

Connor gulped and was about to reply when he noticed the open razor clutched in Todd's right hand, shining in the light. He felt himself pale.

"Now." Todd brought the razor up to the level of his face, examining it with an expression one might regard a lover with, before his gaze went past the object to settle on Connor. "How much did you tell her… Davy?"

Something akin to 'oh shit' ran through Connor's mind, followed by curiosity at how Todd had found out, but then he realised this wasn't the time to let his mind wander. Still… Connor didn't think he'd be able to keep up the charade now, so he let the accent drop. Would blackmail work? The man had a razor in his hand, had that predatory glare plastered on his face… but would he actually do anything? He decided not. It was broad daylight after all, and although the man's sanity was questionable…

_Remember what you heard about his wife_. A small voice at the back of Connor's mind reminded him. Well, there was that. Damn. He'd just have to take the plunge and hope for the best.

"Well, erm…" Damn, he couldn't get tongue-tied now! "It wasn't even as if she believed me! I barely got the words out, I swear!"

"How much did you tell her?" The words sent a shiver of pure terror down Connor's spine. What had happened to change the man like this? Connor still remembered the two weeks he'd spent sweeping up hair for a bit of money in Benjamin Barker's shop, and the man had always been laughing, smiling, talking, being friendly. But now… Now a monster stood before him.

"Only that Miss Lucy was having an affair." He muttered. "With God as me witness, not a word more."

For a few blissful seconds, Connor thought that this had satisfied Todd, that the man would leave – with a threat of twelve, most likely – and then he could get down to the Old Bailey as fast as possible and…

And what, though? Tell them what the whole of London suspected but had not a shred of evidence of? No, that would never work. But surely Todd had all but confirmed it now? But then there'd be questions… most likely they'd find out about Eleanor Lovett being back, and ship her off again. Connor didn't believe she deserved that – didn't believe she'd deserved it the first time, really – so that option was out. Unless he sent Toby to…

And that was Davy Connor's last coherent thought not filled with a sickening, fatal bloody pain. For in that moment, Todd swung round, a growl echoing in his throat, a snarl contorting his features, and that razor came down like deadly silver rain, and slit his throat open. Connor tried to scream, but al that came out was a muffled gurgle as blood spurted from the wound, drenching Todd, covering his own body, as he sank to the floor, choking on his own rubies of life. The last thing he heard was Todd voice, as calm and concise as if he'd just shaved him.

"You never could keep your nose out of other people's business, could you, Davy?"

The last thing Connor saw as his vision faded, devoured by the blackness edging in from the sides, was Todd turning around and pulling off the bloodied shirt. Determined to the end, Connor tried to struggle forwards, deluded in the midst of his pain, thinking that maybe he could wrestle the razor off the man. The next moment, another burning cut joined the first, increasing the pain in a way Davy had thought impossible. If he wasn't dying, he was sure he'd have been driven insane by it all.

Then, as he finally released his desperate clutch on life, Davy Connor died.


	10. Chapter 9: Are You Insane?

A/N: Sorry about the huge gap between chapters. I have no excuse whatsoever, except I've had several viruses one after the other lately, and I wasn't in much of a state for writing anything worth reading. But I sat down this morning and finished this chapter for you all. I think this is the chapter when we really begin to see how Sweeney's coming apart somewhat.

* * *

**Chapter 9 - Are You Insane?**

**OoOoOoOoO**

For almost a minute, Sweeney Todd simply stood where he was, breathing heavily, basking in the afterglow of the kill – something not too dissimilar to its sexual counterpart – and assessed the situation in a calm, detached way he had developed over the past week.

The barber smirked as he recalled the look on Connor's face when he'd called the man by his real name. Truly, he must have seemed all-knowing, but in all honestly he'd simply collared the lad who assisted him and – with a little persuasion in the form of a few coins and the promise of free pies whenever he fancied at the shop, Sweeney doubting that Susan would mind feeding the lad – the barber had extracted the information he required. It struck Sweeney almost ironic that the boy he'd hired for a couple of weeks one summer – who'd seemed so enthusiastic about becoming a barber himself one day – had been the one to kill off Benjamin Barker's business once and for all.

Sweeney put his razor back in his belt after giving it a wipe on his shirt – the smears acquired through this rush job struck a chord in him, but it would have to do for now – and in one quick motion removed his bloodstained shirt. When he'd woken up before dawn that morning, Sweeney had been in no doubt about what fate would befall Pirelli – or Connor – by the time the day was out. So he'd done the logical thing and made plans. Bringing a bag across London would have been too obvious, but nobody paid attention to a bundle, and so Sweeney had wrapped a fresh shirt in his old, battered leather jacket to change into. Pulling the fresh garment on, Sweeney surveyed his reflection in one of the mirrors dotted around the caravan, and then quickly wiped the blood on his face off with the already bloody shirt. There was something else, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it, so there was nothing to do but hope for the best and get back to the shop as quickly as he could. If he was lucky, Susan wouldn't even have woken, and he could slip back upstairs without her ever knowing he'd been gone…

* * *

Susan sighed as she opened the door into the shop, Pirelli's young assistant – Toby, he'd said his name was – following her. She felt quite ready to throttle the barber when he returned. Not that she minded feeding the boy up, but if he asked her about these things first it would be a big help. Still, as she bid Toby to have a seat and set about getting him a couple of meat pies, she felt an odd sense of motherliness wash over her, and viciously pushed it back. It felt like a betrayal to her son to feel maternal over another child. It didn't help that he would have been roundabout Toby's age, or maybe a couple of years younger, turning twelve in the summer. Perhaps Toby picked up on some of her feelings, because his gaze was fixed rather awkwardly on the ground.

"I 'ope I'm not bein' a bother, Ma'am." He muttered, blonde curly hair falling over his face as he twiddled his thumbs in his lap. Susan couldn't help but soften slightly.

"Oh, love, don't you 'ave a worry 'bout that. Here." She placed the pies in front of him and gave the boy a warm smile. "Tuck in. You look like you need a good meal o' three."

"Thank ye, Ma'am." Toby replied, grabbing a pie and tucking in enthusiastically. Susan sat on the bench opposite him and directed her gaze out of the window, having a perfect view of anyone approaching the shop.

Her mind wandered, grasping and subsequently dismissing possibilities concerning Sweeney's whereabouts. He'd been gone a fair while now. Susan had been intending to have a wander down to the market and examine the wares before most people got there, but halfway she'd spotted Toby and, after giving him a smile in greeting, had learned that Sweeney had – in exchange for answers to 'a few strange questions' as Toby had put it – promised the lad a free pie or two whenever he came to the pie shop. Now, Susan was all for feeding up the lad, and if she was honest, that wasn't what was bothering her. What she was really worried about was the questions Sweeney had asked. A slight chill settled over Susan as she remembered how Sweeney had questioned her about what Pirelli had said, and to her shock, found herself hoping her barber hadn't gone after the man. But then again, why would he? The fake Italian was obviously a liar – Lucy Barker was too dim to successfully pull off having an affair and keeping it secret.

_But she _didn't_ keep it a secret, did she?_ A voice in Susan's head pointed out. _Her husband found out. And he did something. Something _terrible_. So terrible Davy Connor seemed to think you were in danger._

_Shut up about that._ Susan thought shakily. She was vaguely aware of a voice, and, with a huge effort, pulled herself back into the real world, leaving the realm of speculation for now.

"Hmm?" Susan turned her head to see Toby, pies finished, looking at her questioningly. "What was that, love? Me 'ead was in the clouds."

"I was just sayin', Ma'am, that Signor Pirelli 'ad an appointment today, an' I should prob'ly go an' remind 'im o' it." The boy explained, looking slightly troubled. Susan felt her brow crease in confusion.

"But didn't you say you 'ad the day off, love?" She asked. "Surely 'e can keep 'is own appointments for one day."

"I don't know…" Toby glanced out of the window. "It's pretty important, Ma'am. Some judge o' somethin' comes once a week f'r a shave. Signor's always 'appy on a Friday, 'cause 'e pays well."

Something clicked in Susan's mind and she filed it away for later, temporarily forgetting her anger at Sweeney as she considered the probable fact that Judge Turpin got shaved by Davy Connor. That could be useful…

"Tell you what, then, Toby, you go an' see if Signor Pirelli's forgotten 'is appointment, an' if 'e 'asn't, you can come right back 'ere for another pie." She suggested, and couldn't help her lips twitching upwards at Toby's enthusiastic expression.

"Oh, thank ye, Ma'am." He exclaimed happily. "I'll go now."

"No need for that, lad, Signor Pirelli has been called away and will not be returning."

Susan looked up sharply to see Sweeney stood in the doorway, and wondered why she hadn't heard him come in. Perhaps it was only her imagination, encouraged by the upheaval of the last couple of days, but there seemed to be an almost ironic tone to the barber's voice, as if he was privy to a fact nobody else was, and found the situation highly amusing.

"Oh?" Susan looked into the barber's eyes, trying to distinguish exactly what he meant. "An' why's that, then?"

"Let's just say he had a run-in with an old… friend." Sweeney gave Susan a significant look and after a moment her eyes widened in realisation as she glimpsed the bundle under his arm. Trying not to panic, she turned to Toby.

"Why don't you 'ave another pie, love, an' I'll just be 'avin' a word with Mr T." The baker suggested, taking the boy's plate and putting another pie on it before he could reply. Replacing the plate in front of the youngster, Susan glared at Sweeney, took him by the arm, and pulled him through the shop and into the living room, closing the door behind them. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the dark-haired man, who seemed slightly uneasy by this point.

"What the 'ell did you, Sweeney?" She asked, her voice low and urgent. To her annoyance, the barber simply placed the bundle – which Susan now saw was his battered leather jacket – on the sofa and leant against the aforementioned piece of furniture.

"Like I said, 'Signor Pirelli'." The mockery surrounding the name told Susan what Sweeney had asked Toby. "Had a run in with an old friend."

For clarification, as if Susan needed it, Sweeney pulled the razor from his belt and flicked it open, and set about buffing the metal gently with the edge of his shirt.

"Well, what for? Sweeney, are you insane? You'll get us both 'ung!"

"I was out for a walk, and just so happened to pass the good Signor's caravan. It's not my fault he asked for a word with me and revealed he knew our real identities, and intended to go to the Beadle if I didn't give him half my profits." The dark-haired barber explained, infuriatingly cool. Susan gave him a long look and, before he could stop her, grabbed the bundle, and gave a stiff nod as a bloodied shirt dropped out, just as she had expected.

"'Ow often d'you go out for a walk with a fresh shirt coincidentally under your arm?" She demanded quietly, her voice as hard as steel. "Don't lie to me."

A silence stretched between them as their eyes met. Finally, Sweeney glanced away and sighed, a hand going through his wild hair, but said nothing.

_But really_, Susan reflected,_ what is there _to_ say?_

"All right." She said eventually. "If you won't tell me… get out."

Sweeney looked up sharply, his eyes searching hers for the joke.

"I mean it." The baker insisted. "Somethin's 'appenin' to you, an' I want no part o' it. 'Cause o' you, there's a lad out there who's now alone in the world. Someone's gonna 'ave seen you goin' in an' comin' out, Sweeney, an' they'll 'ave noticed Connor didn't. So unless you can give me a damn good reason for what you did… leave."

Sweeney had finished polishing his razor, but he didn't put it away, and Susan's eyes followed it as the barber raised it, examining it with casualness. Eventually, those gorgeous dark eyes flicked to her, and rooted her to the spot as effectively as any shackles. A slight smirk played over his features, but it held no humour, and he spoke a single word that Susan thought for a moment would seal her fate.

"Connor?"

Susan froze, a hand going slowly to her mouth as she realised her mistake. As much as she wanted to meet the barber's gaze now, to show him she wasn't afraid, and by God she was as capable of murdering a man as he was, she couldn't. She'd lied to him, pure and simple, and now she was being a hypocrite. But still, she reasoned, it was different. Completely different. Or was it?

"I was under the impression we were talking about Adolfo Pirelli." Sweeney continued, a strange glint in his eyes. "In fact, I am quite certain I made no mention of a Mr Connor."

"I…" Words temporarily failed Susan and she used the time to plan her answer. "All right, then. Yes, when 'e came to the shop the other day, 'e told me 'e was really Davy Connor. An' 'e also made it quite clear 'e didn't intend to turn either o' us in. On the contrary, 'e came to tell me to watch me back, if you must know." As she spoke, Susan's rage built inside her. Who was Sweeney Todd to try and threaten her? To intimidate her into backing down. Indignant anger swept away reason and common sense, and as she continued her tirade, Susan advanced on the barber. "'E said 'e thought I'd always been pretty decent, an' 'e didn't want to see me go the same way as Mrs Barker did when 'er 'usband found out 'bout 'er affair with Judge Turpin."

When she finished, Susan was breathing heavily, and suddenly realised how foolish it had been to spout the rumours Davy had told her… but she also realised she didn't care. This was what she should have done right at the start; get it all out in the open so she'd know whether it was truth or lies. Sweeney was also breathing heavily, and he looked angrier than Susan had ever seen him. He lunged forwards, and before Susan could react, he had her pinned against the wall, his hand at her throat, and the other still holding his razor.

"You have no idea what you're talking about." The barber growled, his toe chilling the marrow in the baker's bones. Even so, she somehow found the courage to answer back.

"Get off me." The words were quiet and frighteningly calm, but filled with a menace that matched Sweeney's. "Or I swear to God, you'll regret it."

The barber took no notice of her words – if anything, his grip tightened slightly.

"And I swear, if you ever speak of that again, I can't be certain nothing will happen."

Susan's eyes widened, and for the first time she struggled, both of her hands around the one at her neck, and her legs delivering kicks to the barber's skins.

"Don't you dare threaten me!" She exclaimed. "Don't you dare stand there an' tell me what I can an' can't do, Benjamin Barker, 'cause you're not the only one who can play that game. Is it true, then? Prob'ly is, isn't it? Why else would you 'ave reacted like this?"

For a blood-curdling moment, Susan was sure she had pushed too far, and the barber would rid himself of her as easily as he murdered his clientele – his razor came with a hair's breadth of her throat before he seemed to control himself. However, a predatorial smirk remained on his features, and his vocie whsipered macabre lyrics in her ear.

_"There's a hole in the world  
Like a great black pit  
And it's filled with people  
Who are filled with shit  
And the vermin of the world  
Inhabit it-  
But not for long!_

_They all deserve to die!  
Tell you why, Mrs Linnet,  
Tell you why...  
Because in all of the whole human race,  
Mrs Linnet,  
There are two kinds of men and only two.  
There's the one staying put  
In his proper place  
And the one with his foot  
In the other one's face-  
Look at me, Mrs Linnet,  
Look at you_

_No, we all deserve to die  
Even you, Mrs Linnet,  
Even I.  
Because the lives of the wicked should be  
Made brief.  
For the rest of us, death  
WIll be a relief.  
We all deserve to die!"_

Sweeney's epxression was predatorial, not more than ever, and his eyes were drownign in bloodlust. Susan held her breath and waited for the cold silver to descend on her throat, knowing Sweeney was far too strong for her to throw off, but with a small grunt, and an apparently large effort, he pulled both his arms back and replaced the razor in his belt. As Susan rubbed her throat, trying to chafe some feeling back into it, Sweeney grabbed his jacket, tugged it on, and left without a word. As the dark-haired man pulled the living room door open, a pale and frightened Toby staggered backwards, earning himself a stiff glare. Susan stayed exactly where she was until she heard the shop bell tingle, and then she allowed herself several shaky breaths as she slid slowly to the floor and hugged her knees.

"M-Ma'am?" A shaky voice beside her caused Susan to turn her head, and she saw Toby crouched beside her, concern written all over his face. "Are ye all right? 'E didn't 'urt ye, did 'e? Only, I wasn't meanin' no 'arm, Ma'am, but ye'd been gone a fair while an' I was worried, so I just put me ear to the door, just to check, an' I 'eard 'im threatenin' ye."

"I'm fine, love." The redhead whispered, a single tear rolling slowly down her cheek as the magnitude of what had happened crashed down on her. "Just fine."


	11. Chapter 10: Taking In Strays

A/N: Woo, I'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter so far (faint) It's alos one of my favourites, because Anthony is back again, and I've grown to enjoy writing him. Please don't take his views on gin too seriously - I was just poking a bit of fun at out naive optomistic sailor boy. Also, there's a few more hints about the Lucy affair in this chapter. And before anyone asks, no, Lucy is not the beggar woman Anthony mentions.

* * *

**Chapter 10 – Taking In Strays**

**OoOoOoOoO**

Sweeney felt rage bubbling just below the surface as he exited the pie shop and climbed the stairs to his own. Trying to keep a lid on it, he quickly gathered what he needed – money, clothes, his razors, his photograph of Lucy and Johanna, and several other necessities – and thrust them into a large bag, before hefting said object onto his shoulder. He needed to get away from Susan before he either killed her or threw her onto the nearest available surface and ravaged her. It could go either way – he was so angry with the woman for presuming to know all about what had happened, and for using his old name of all things, but at the same time, _God_ she was gorgeous when she was angry. When he'd had her against the wall, seeing her chest heaving, her eyes hardened and sparking, he'd almost had her then.

Breathing deeply, the barber stormed outside and, before descending the stairs, surveyed Fleet Street. People were hurrying to and fro, some entering the various shops or collaring each other to talk. A smirk slipped easily into place on his features, but it softened as images of his wife and daughter came to mind, and disappeared as the barber remembered Lucy clutching him, sobbing, telling him what had happened, begging him to… to…

_To make her 'gone'._ A mocking voice echoed in his mind. _You're good at that. Making people just… _gone_. Lucy is gone, Johanna is gone, and Thomas is gone… It doesn't matter_ how_, does it? So long as they're gone, out of the way. _

"Lucy…" The word was lost to the breeze, as delicate as a flower petal, echoing with melancholy.

_"And I'll never see Johanna,_

_No, I'll never hug my girl to me._

_And my Lucy lies in ashes_

_And I'll never see my girl again…"_

Pale fingers danced over the railing before him as Sweeney recalled the moment of relief that sinking his razor into a man's throat brought.

_"But the world waits,_

_I'm alive at last _

_And I'm full of joy!"_

And as he descended amongst the unsuspecting people of London, Sweeney Todd plotted and planned – like a perfect machine, he planned. Anyone who brushed too closely to him would have seen the spark of madness in his eyes, the cruel twist of his lips, and heard the words he spoke with utter conviction.

_"And I will get him back_

_Even as he gloats_

_In the meantime I'll practise_

_On less honourable throats…"_

* * *

For a while, Susan simply sat on the floor, in shock. But eventually she realised that there were more important things that needed attending to than her own emotions – especially the young boy who now had nowhere to go. Even though it hurt to be around him, Susan knew that Toby was one of two people who could melt her slightly – the other being the pigheaded, murdering bastard that had just left the premises. She couldn't just let the lad wander the streets, knowing full well what could happen to him.

"Well." She murmured. "Looks like we're both on our own now."

"Ma'am, why don't ye report 'im t' th' police?" Toby asked, his blonde curls framing his face angelically. "'E's no good, that one, if'n ye don't mind me sayin' so."

Susan did, but didn't comment, knowing the lad was thinking about her safety. Instead, she sighed deeply.

"Not that easy, love. We go back a long way, Mr Todd an' me. 'E'll be back when 'e's good an' ready an' calmed down." She explained. "'E 'as to. We've only got each other."

"You've got me, Ma'am." Toby interjected. "Not to worry, not to worry, I may not be smart, but I ain't dumb. I'll look after you."

"Oh, love." Susan was truly touched by the boy's loyalty, and even though the small part of her that was fiercely loyal to her son hated her for it, the mother in Susan pulled the lad into her arms and gave him hug. "Tell you what, you stay 'ere with me an' 'elp me with the shop."

"Really, Ma'am?" Toby's face lit up at the prospect, and Susan smiled wanly in return.

"Yeah, me an' you love." In an automatic gesture of mothering, she stoked the boy's hair. "Oh, I do love your long 'air, dear. Wish me Albert 'ad 'ad nice blonde curls like you."

"Thank ye, Ma'am, but it does get awful hot." It one movement, Toby reached up and pulled the hair – which Susan now saw was a wig – off, revealing his real hair, which was dark, and stuck up in spikes with sweat.

"Oh." Was all the redhead could say to that. "Well, can't be sittin' 'ere all day. I've got a shop to open."

"What can I do, Ma'am?" Toby questioned enthusiastically, following the baker as she stood and made her way into the shop. Susan paused, not having considered this, and then the image of Toby on the stage banging on his small tin drum came to mind, and a grin slowly spread over her face.

* * *

Anthony paused and leaned against a wall to catch his breath as another ribbon of pain sliced its way through his arm. He was almost certain it wasn't broken, but having first fallen on it and then using it as a barrier against that Beadle Bamford's cane had certainly done it no good. Thankfully, his nose had all but stopped bleeding, and his ears had stopped ringing a while ago. Anyway, the key he held in his hand made every moment of the pain worthwhile.

Johanna… The name suited her – a beautiful name for an angelic girl. Vaguely, Anthony recalled the near-tenderness in the voice of the beggar woman who had told him her name. The woman herself had been nondescript, her hair more black than brown with dirt, and her eyes a flat blue. Shaking the image of the beggar from his mind, Anthony returned to the task at hand. He knew he would need help in rescuing Johanna from that prison Judge Turpin kept her in, and believed that he could get her out himself – he simply needed somewhere to take his beloved for half an hour or so until he could find a carriage to take them far away from London. Yet Anthony had no idea how to go about searching for a place safe enough, whose owners wouldn't yield to bribes. He truly needed to learn more about London, and quickly.

Suddenly, Susan Linnet's words came back to him – _You will. But don't be ashamed – you're young, life 'as been kind to you._

Yes, life had been kind to him in comparison to Johanna, or countless other poor souls he had seen scraping a living in London. Anthony wondered now how he could ever have been naïve enough to think London a place of endless opportunity. Truly he had fallen for the tales of the streets paved with gold – metaphorically of course – when in reality London seemed akin to a kind of hell. No wonder Mrs Linnet had not been overly joyous at the prospect of return.

Then in came to him, in a flash of clarity that made him feel foolish for not considering it immediately. He considered Mrs Linnet a friend of sorts, and she seemed to hold him in some similar manner. Perhaps he could ask her for help, just a place for Johanna to stay fro a short while… Although he was loath to impose, Anthony knew he had no other choice. It was either this or try his luck with one of the local inns – and there was no way he would leave Johanna there alone amongst brutes and whores and God knows what else.

A destination now in mind, Anthony gritted his teeth and pushed onwards, stopping several people to ask for directions to Fleet Street – Mrs Linnet had mentioned before leaving to meet her friend that if he wished to look her up, he should try Fleet Street – and though most gave one look at his bloodied clothes and moved on, he eventually collared a young, rough looking lad who cheerfully directed him after Anthony pressed a coin into him palm.

"Ye just go left an' then right until ye get there, sir." The lad explained. "If ye get lost, just follow yer nose – ye c'n smell th' pies from streets away!"

"Pies?" Anthony questioned, bemused. The boy looked at him as if he had two heads.

"Yeah, Missus Linnet's meat pies. Cor, they're awful good, sir." He clarified. "Li'l bit o' 'eaven, ol' Jimmy says."

Anthony decided not to question whom 'ol' Jimmy' was, and instead thanked the boy again, a bubble of hope rising in him now that he knew for certain Mrs Linnet was on Fleet Street. It made sense that she had gone back to her pie business, he reasoned, and if she had her own shop now, it would be a perfect place to hide Johanna…

But first he had to ask; to make sure it was all right. After all, Mrs Linnet may very well say she wanted no part of this plot. Yet, as he stumbled along the streets of London, something told Anthony she would not refuse.

* * *

Anthony heard a young boy singing before the rich, savoury aroma of the meat pies reached his nose, or saw the shop itself. As he turned a final corner, the sailor knew where to look immediately by the crowd of people sat at benches erected outside the shop, and chatting jovially amongst themselves. However, a sales pitch could clearly be heard above the cheerful rabble, and as he peered, Anthony picked out a young boy of around eleven with messy dark hair stood just outside the door of the shop, drawing in yet more customers.

_"Ladies an' gentlemen,_

_May I 'ave yer attention, perlease?_

_Are yer nostrils aquiver an' tinglin' as well_

_At tha' delicate, luscious, ambrosial smell?_

_Yes they are, I c'n tell._

_Well, ladies an' gentlemen,_

_Tha' aroma enrichin' th' breeze_

_Is like nothin' compared t' it's succulent source,_

_As the gourmets among yer will tell yer o' course._

_Ladies an' gentlemen,_

_Yer can't imagine th' rapture in store—_

_Jus' inside o' this door!_

_There ye'll sample_

_Mrs Linnet's meat pies_

_Savoury an' sweet pies,_

_As ye'll see._

_Ye who eat pies,_

_Mrs Linnet's meat pies_

_Conjure up th' treat pies_

_Used t' be!"_

Then, to Anthony's confusion and amazement, a woman who looked exactly like Susan Linnet walked out of the pie shop, clutching several plates of pies. Except it couldn't be her, because the Mrs Linnet Anthony knew didn't smile like that, or simply roll her eyes when a man who'd had a few too many mugs of ale tried to slap her backside. And she certainly didn't have a few words with every customer she passed, giving the odd chuckle when appropriate. After watching for only a minute, Anthony surmised that this had to be some sort of coincidence. All right, the aesthetic similarities between the two women were uncanny, but the personality differences were too big to comprehend. Bitterly disappointed, the sailor cursed under his breath – a rarity, for Anthony was not usually one for profanity – but this situation seemed to call for foul language. He turned and was about to leave and look elsewhere for safe lodgings, when he heard someone call his name.

For a moment, Anthony thought it was someone else that was being called, Anthony was a common enough name after all, but then he was called again, and this time he registered that the voice was female, and before he could leave, a hand gripped the neck of his shirt.

"For pity's sake, lad, 'ave you gone deaf?" The voice demanded, and as Anthony turned – with a little difficulty, for his shirt had not yet been released – he saw the Mrs Linnet look-alike. Except this was much more like the woman he had spotted adrift in the ocean.

"Mrs Linnet?" He asked, to make sure, and as the woman nodded, she let go of Anthony's shirt and scrutinized his face.

"What the 'ell 'appened to you, Anthony?" The redhead asked, her voice not unkind, reminding the sailor brusquely of his injuries.

"Um, it's a rather long story." He admitted, causing Mrs Linnet to roll her eyes in frustration.

"I don't know, first Mr T goes off in a tizzy, an' then I take li'l Toby in, an' now _you_ turn up lookin' like a carriage ran o'er you." She clucked her tongue in a surprisingly motherly gesture of disapproval.

Then the baker sighed and, turning, gave the staring customers a meaningful glance, at which they all resumed conversing and eating – though Anthony suspected he heard hushed voices gossiping this latest occurrence as he was lead by Mrs Linnet through the shop and into a relatively cosy-looking living room. Glancing around, Anthony took in the faded wallpaper, the fireplace, and the worn sofa. Mrs Linnet gave him another long look before leaping into action.

"Right." She indicated the sofa. "You sit down, and drink this." 'This' was a small glad tumbler of gin that the redhead poured and pushed into Anthony's hands, causing his features to inadvertently scrunch up in distaste. He had never been one for alcohol. Mrs Linnet snorted in amusement. "Won't kill you, lad. Now _sit_!"

Anthony sat as the woman bustled from the room to do who knows what, and after staring at the gin for a long moment, shrugged and decided to pretend it was water. Bringing the glass to his lips, Anthony took a gulp as he had seen other sailors do and choked, as the liquid seemed to burn his throat. Coughing and spluttering slightly, he nevertheless managed to keep most of the gin in his mouth, but his expression if distaste deepened. The sailor couldn't quite believe people drank this for _fun._

Even so, after several moments, Anthony felt as if he was being warmed up from the inside out, and his injuries – which had flamed up in pain again at his choking fit – dulled down to an acceptable ache. Perhaps gin had remedial properties, then, but Anthony still disliked it.

"Are ye meant t' be in 'ere?" A child's voice made Anthony look up in surprise to see the boy – Anthony supposed he was the Toby Mrs Linnet had referred to – who'd been singing to attract customers stood a few feet from him, an expression of curiosity on his face. "Still, I mean."

"I think so." Anthony replied, confused. "At least, I haven't been told to leave yet."

"Oh." Toby's expression cleared and relief slowly took over. "Good. I was 'alf-expectin' ye t' be thrown out, t' be 'onest. Ev'ryone else who comes in 'ere is. Usually Mrs Linnet shouts at 'em f'r a bit an' then tells 'em not t' come back. I think she thinks she can't be 'eard from th' shop."

"Oh." Was all Anthony could think of to reply to that. "Erm, well, I can't say for sure whether or not I'm going to be thrown out."

"No you're not, leastways, not until you explain how you got them wounds" Mrs Linnet's voice sounded from behind the sofa and both boys jumped slightly. She raised an eyebrow but didn't comment on the conversation she had probably overheard. Instead she glanced at Toby.

"What's up, love, 'ave we run out o' pies?" The baker asked, and cursed under her breath when the boy nodded. "Dear God, no rest for the wicked, is there? Do us a favour, Toby dear, an' tell them that are waitin' I'll just be a minute."

Once Toby had gone back to the shop with his new assignment, Mrs Linnet set iodine and a clean cloth on the small table in front of the sofa and, before he could utter a word of protest, soaked the cloth in the antiseptic and cleaned Anthony's numerous cuts, a determined expression on her face. Anthony gritted his teeth and endured the stinging liquid knowing it would do him good, despite the smarting. Finally, Mrs Linnet was done, and she gave the sailor a stern look.

"Right, now that we're sure you're not goin' to die o' one o' them infections, d'you mind tellin' me who did this to you?" The tone of the question left it in no doubt that an explanation was in no way optional. Anthony humbly lowered his head.

"Well, you see, Ma'am, I was trying to find Hyde Park – it looked so big on the map, but I kept getting lost – and I ended up on one of the fancier streets on the other side of town. I wondered about asking for directions, but decided I'd probably get told to leave the area, but then…" Anthony looked up again, his eyes seeing the angel at the window again. "I looked up, and I saw a girl – no, an angel – watching me from a window. Such a beautiful girl, so pale with yellow hair like wheat, but lonesome too, kept in that prison by a tyrant, some Judge, or so I was told by a beggar woman, and I am in love with her." Anthony didn't hear Mrs Linnet's snort of derision, so lost was he in the memory. "Anyway, I was meaning no disrespect to her, Ma'am, but then the door of the house opened and the owner beckoned me inside. I thought… well, I don't know what I thought he wanted, but I went anyway, and he spoke of the most vulgar practises, insinuating that since I travelled the world I must be… well… familiar with certain practises." Anthony felt himself blush fiercely, but the thought of the Judge believing he wanted to do those things with Johanna, mixed with the embarrassment of the whole affair brought the blood rushing to his cheeks. "Anyway, he threatened to kill me if he saw me 'gander' at his ward again, and then his Beadle, ah, reinforced the message." The sailor finished and looked to Mrs Linnet for her reaction, only to see the strangest expression on her face. He couldn't rightly say what it was – it seemed to be a mixture of a whole host of emotions – and slowly the woman blinked.

"Say, what Judge was this, lad?" She asked, and though the question struck Anthony as odd, he answered readily.

"Judge Turpin, Ma'am."

"An' the name o' your lass?"

"Johanna."

"Well I'll be."

Mrs Linnet stood and paced around the room aimlessly for a few moments, apparently deep in thought. Anthony was getting more and more confused by the moment, but knew that there was no point in trying to get answers from the redhead at times like these. Eventually, Mrs Linnet sighed heavily and leaned against a wall.

"So what you goin' to do?" She asked.

"Pardon?"

"About Johanna." The baker elaborated irritably. "I presume you're wantin' to rescue 'er, o' somethin' similar."

"Well, actually…" Anthony began, slightly sheepishly. "That's what I came about. You see, as I staggered out of the alley, Johanna opened her window and threw this out." He held up the key he'd been holding the whole time. "If that is not a sign she returns my feelings, what is?"

Mrs Linnet's expression aid she could think of several crushing replies to that statement, but was kindly refraining.

"Anyway," Anthony continued regardless. "I plan to wait until the next time Turpin is out on business, and then I shall get in using this key, and steal Johanna away. All I need is a place for her to stay for half an hour at the most while I arrange for a carriage to take us away. I… I was hoping she could come here, Ma'am."

The baker held his eyes for a long time, and Anthony mentally crossed his fingers. Eventually, Mrs Linnet sighed and nodded her head, causing Anthony to let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Oh, all right. I must be off me 'ead, but yes, bring 'er 'ere, lad." Her expression said that she could barely believe she had said the words, but when a grin slid onto Anthony's face, her features softened ever so slightly.

"I presume you 'ave a place to stay?" She asked, and rolled her eyes when Anthony opened his mouth, and then closed it after several moments. The truth was, he'd discovered that, despite his belief he had more than enough money to last him until the next ship took sail, Anthony had barely enough to afford him a couple of nights in an inn that wasn't crawling with bedbugs, cockroaches, and a host of other unwelcome inhabitants.

"Oh, for the love o'…" Mrs Linnet sighed and rubbed her temples. "Me good nature's goin' to be the death o' me one o' these days. I've got a spare room, you can 'ave that until you get Johanna. There's no luxuries, mind you, but it's a roof o'er your 'ead at least."

Anthony was at a loss for words, stunned by the baker's kindness. He stumbled over his words in his hurry to thank her, and was rewarded with a hand in the air, silencing him.

"You can make it up to me by gettin' that poor girl out o' 'is 'ands, lad. If you're worried 'bout rent, then you can 'elp me in the shop to make up for what you can't pay."

And, despite Anthony's question, she would say no more on the subject, refusing to explain why she wanted to see Johanna out of Turpin's house. Anthony knew he was missing something here, but for the life of him he could not see what it was, so he simply thanked the baker several more times. As he went in the direction of the spare room to set his bag down before going to help in the shop, he could have sworn he heard Mrs Linnet mutter that she had to stop taking in strays.


	12. Chapter 11: Anniversary

A/N: I don't like this chapter. At all. I wanted it to be very emotional, with subtle foreshadowing and I don't think I managed it, but I've been wrestling with it for a while, and I don't think I can get it any better, unfortunately. (Hangs head).

* * *

**Chapter 11 – Anniversary**

**OoOoOoOoO**

"Yes, that's right, twenty white roses." Sweeney said impatiently, drumming his fingers on the counter as the florist eyes him suspiciously, her features becoming even more pinched, so that Sweeney concluded the woman had probably been a ferret in another life. He was well aware of why she was looking at him in that way, of course – in the three days since leaving his shop in a storming temper, Sweeney Todd had barely ventured out of the small room he'd rented in an inn that made the state of the shops before Susan had cleaned them look sparkling. Even then, it had only been for necessities, such as food and water – though he had partaken of little of either. He knew that he was, quite frankly, a mess, but he didn't give a damn.

Mostly, he had thought, and thought deeply. Although his argument with Susan had been the main reason he had left, Sweeney had also had a myriad of other things on his mind of late. Most of them being to do with the petulant redhead and, more accurately, the feelings the two of them had had for each other as teenagers. Snatches of memories of better times haunted him both in sleep and his waking hours, ghosts following him relentlessly until Sweeney wondered if he would go mad. Eventually, he had realised that until he acknowledged the date, it would not stop bothering him. So, not without a little reluctance, the barber had removed the chain he had worn around his neck for the past eight years and studied the two rings on it.

They were simple, but beautiful. Both were a bright, yellow gold, and one smaller than the other, obviously meant for a woman. That one had a small, heart-shaped ruby set into it, with a smaller diamond on either side. On the inside of the band was inscribed '_Diligo est eternus_' – _Love is everlasting_. On the other ring, the male one, there were no jewels, but instead there was another inscription on the inside. This one read '_Diligo est invictus_' – _Love is unconquerable_. The words on both rings are almost worn away from being handled so often, whether in a glancing touch of remembrance, in a grip of a man needing a shred of comfort, or in a thoughtful caress of skin on metal as he reminisced and imagined. Sweeney Todd had purchased the rings as another man a lifetime ago, but they still meant as much – if not more – to him as they did then. He could still see her face when he proposed, could still feel the passionate kiss they had shared when she accepted, and could still remember the unparalleled thrill of sneaking away to be married on Sunday.

But now for the present. Sweeney turned his attention back to the florist, who was carefully counting out twenty pure white roses, and still shooting him the occasional odd glance. He barely repressed a smirk, wondering what she'd think if she knew why he was purchasing the flowers. He was honouring an anniversary of a marriage that for all intents and purposes had never happened, that had been between two people now dead. It was insane, but in a world that was completely mad, it seemed that insanity was now the norm.

"Would you like to include a message with them, sir?" The florist asked, having finished preparing the bouquet. Sweeney considered for a moment, and then fished the jewelled ring out of his pocket.

"Just put this in." He said, biting back a chuckle when the woman's eyebrows shot up and disappeared into her fringe. "She'll understand."

"Of course, sir." The black-haired florist plucked the ring delicately from Sweeney's fingers and attached it to the white ribbon securing the bouquet. "Will that be all?"

The barber nodded, and paid for the flowers, before carefully picking the bouquet up and taking a moment to simply admire the perfect blossoms before he exited the shop, a hesitant 'good luck' following him. Sweeney smirked at that – he would need all the luck he could get.

* * *

Rain was falling. Appropriate, seeing as today – this day that should have marked a happy occasion – was blighted by tragedy. Sighing to himself, Sweeney wondered for the hundredth time if he was doing the right thing. He was not usually a man to doubt himself, but when it came to her… all his doubts came together. Would she understand the gesture? Would she despise the reminder of what could never be? Would she rather forget the whole affair? Perhaps she already had – but deep down Sweeney knew it was as fresh in her mind as it was in his. Those memories; hated and treasured, loathed and loved, shunned and coveted. They were chasing after a life that could never be, and the beauty of it was in the dreaming…

_Benjamin's hand slipped around the back of his lover's head, supporting it and angling it, his fingers intertwining with her wild auburn curls. Hardly aware of what she was doing, the redhead reached up and linked her hands around Benjamin's neck, encouraging him and urging him to kiss her. With a small smirk, he leaned in…_

Those days were gone… Yet the memories still returned to plague him, pushing him to the limits of sanity, and threatening to shove him into madness. Madness born of desire, anger, longing, and so many other things.

_Benjamin sat in her favourite armchair, her head resting on her shoulder. Both of them were smiling gently, and Benjamin was stroking the girl's hair, as had become his habit. It was almost second nature now, and it was like a comfort to both of them. Every so often she gave a small, happy sigh and shifted position slightly, amusingly reminding Benjamin of a cat. A wild, beautiful, confusing cat. On an impulse, he leaned in and captured her lips again._

* * *

Susan had felt sorrow settle on her like a lead weight from the moment she woke up. All through the morning, she went about her business like a woman in a dream – or a waking nightmare – as she attempted to scrape together a few more pies out of the little meat she had left. Susan realised that if Sweeney didn't come back today, she'd need to go down to the market and try and find some decent meat – the bodies were all but bare skeletons now. Even as she thought about it, the idea made Susan shake her head in disbelief. Today of all days, the first thing she thought she had of the man was that she needed him back so he could continue killing customers. No wonder he had ended up marrying Lucy.

The baker paused in the midst of loading pies onto a tray to bake in the large oven, as she felt a sob building in her chest. Hurriedly, she pushed it down, determined that the memories of a lifetime ago would not bother her. She couldn't let them – she hadn't cried when she'd been sentenced to life on Devil's Isle, she hadn't cried when she'd been whipped for the first time, her back ripped open and feeling like it was on fire. She hadn't cried when one of the officers pushed her against a wall and ripped open her dress, nor when the small girl that had been transported for stealing bread had died of blood loss after a flogging she should never have received.

If none of that could make Susan Linnet cry, then the memories of the day she should have been married most certainly were not. It had been twenty years ago, anyway – too long to weep over now. She had had her chance, and it had not come to fruition. Yet even as she struggled to keep the memories under lock and key, several seeped to the fore of Susan's mind.

_Stood before the grimy mirror in her home, admiring the dress she'd spent weeks saving up for. Her hair pinned up as neatly as she could, and instead of a tiara and veil, a hair band decorated with daisies accentuated her auburn curls. Her dress was simple but pretty, the white fabric edged with blue on the sleeves, hem and neckline. As a child, she had dreamed of fantasy weddings, wearing a dress fit for a princess, and an amazing ceremony – yet now that the time came, she could think of nothing she would prefer to what would follow. Married on Sunday, just like he'd promised._

Susan closed her eyes and placed her hands over her ears, trying to block everything out, but to no avail – what was inside her mind could not be repelled.

_The church bells were ringing as she approached the building, her palms sweating from nerves. She was getting married to her true love… it seemed almost too good to be true. All these years of hoping and dreaming, and now it was finally happening. Just as she was about to enter the church, a hand slipped into her own, and Benjamin was there smiling down at her._

_"We're getting married." The redhead whispered, still hardly able to believe it._

_"So we are." His hand toyed with a stray curl that had escaped her neat bun. For a moment it seemed Benjamin would say something more, but then he simply let go of her hand to hold her arm instead, and the two of them entered the church._

"Stop." Susan moaned quietly. "Just stop. I don't want to remember! I can't think 'bout it!"

_"__Should there be anyone who has cause why this couple should not be united in marriage, they must speak now or forever hold their peace.__" The priest finished, and since there was nobody else in the church besides the two teens, he gave a small smile and was about to continue onto the final part of the ceremony._

_"Wait!" All heads turned to the door, where a blonde girl was stood, tears gathering in her eyes as she surveyed Benjamin and Nellie. "I object to this marriage! Benjamin is my fiancée."_

_"No, I'm not." Benjamin said hurriedly, as Nellie simply looked on in horror. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not when they were so close. "I swear, I have never seen this woman before in my life, Father – please, finish our marriage."_

_"Benjamin!" She was running up to the altar now, tears flowing freely. "How can you lie like that? How can you want to marry her over me? I love you."_

_"But I don't love you, Lucy." The brunette whispered, barely audible. Nellie felt she had to speak, or burst._

_"Don't you dare." She muttered, venom creeping into her words. "Don't you dare ruin me weddin'!"_

_Lucy simply gave them both one helpless look, and then stepped back and sank into one of the pews, looking as though she dearly wanted to look away, but her eyes were fixed on the soon-to-be newlyweds. The priest was confused, but he seemed to have decided Lucy was mad, and he finished the ceremony as the blonde simply sat there sobbing. The two teens tried their best to ignore her as the final line was spoken._

_"You may now kiss the bride."_

Susan gave in at that point, and allowed tears to flow down her cheeks. Burying her face in her hands, the redhead sank to the floor, curling up as small as possible, looking vulnerable for the first time in so many years. And she was vulnerable – Susan thought that, at that moment, a baby would have been able to knock her senseless. Her damnable emotions were getting the better of her and she was powerless to stop them. Hate, love, sorrow, anger and helplessness mixed together in her mind, making her shake. Not for the first time in her life, Susan Linnet wondered if she was finally going mad.

* * *

Sweeney approached the pie shop with some trepidation, hoping against hope that Susan had not yet opened. It was still relatively early, but then Susan was an early riser, and spontaneity was as much a part of her as her hair, her eyes, and her constant chatter. However, as he drew closer to the pie shop, the barber gave the smallest sigh of relief when he saw the sign was turned to 'closed'. One small detail caught his attention and made him pause, though: two boys were sitting in the shop, eating oatmeal. One Sweeney recognised – it was the young lad who had assisted Pirelli before his death – but the other boy was older, in his late teens, and Sweeney was certain he had never seen him before. His brow furrowing in confusion, the dark-haired barber wondered what they were doing there. Was Susan taking in strays like Nellie used to?

Before he could linger on that point, the younger boy happened to glance up and spotted him, several emotions flickering on his face before he settled for a mixture of fear and something that wasn't quite anger. Deciding that he could not avoid this much longer, Sweeney entered the shop brusquely, thinking that if he was brash again neither boy would dare to so much as give him a questioning look.

"Where's Susan?" The barber demanded of the boys, who were both watching him with the careful curiosity one might view a mad person with.

"Mrs Linnet, you mean, sir?" The older boy asked, and Sweeney resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he simply sighed heavily.

"Yes, congratulations, you know her first name." He replied sarcastically. "Where is she?"

"Down in th' bake 'ouse." Toby answered quietly, averting Sweeney's eyes. "But she's th' on'y one allowed down there."

"Really." Sweeney was quite satisfied when both boys cringed slightly at his tone. In one swift movement, he dumped the flowers on one of the counters and stormed through the shop and towards the bake house, glad when stunned silence was all that was left in his wake.

* * *

He knew something was wrong as soon as he was on the first stair. Rather than the monotonous sound of chopping, or slicing, or whatever it was Susan did down here, there was a silence. No… not quite a silence – Sweeney pricked his ears and just caught the sound of heavy, gasping breathing… almost like… crying.

"Susan…" Sweeney called, descending slowly, not sure of what to expect. No answer met his words, and he wondered if she had someone injured herself. However, this possibility was eliminated as Sweeney reached the bottom step and looked around, his eyes having become somewhat accustomed to the darkness during his steady descent. The first thing that hit Sweeney was the smell, and he steeled himself before he gagged or worse. As the barber glanced around, he listened carefully and followed the sounds that were his only indication of Susan's position, walking towards what seemed to be a large table. Or counter. Probably what she cut the bodies up on.

"Susan?" Sweeney tried again, but he knew by now that the redhead was not going to reply. Even though he was blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his vision, Sweeney was still mostly blind in the darkness of the bake house, and when he located Susan, it was only because he almost tripped over her. Fumbling blindly, the barber crouched down and laid a hand on what he thought – and hoped – was Susan's shoulder.

"W-What are you d-d-doing back?" She demanded in a watery voice after a few moments. Sweeney rolled his eyes in the darkness. Damn impossible woman, trying to sound strong when it was obvious she was still crying.

"Never mind." He replied, trying to soften his voice. "What are you crying for?"

"'M not." There was the soft rustle of skin on skin as Susan brushed the tears away. Sweeney ran a thumb across her cheek and was not surprised when it came back wet.

"Then I suppose you often sit in a pitch black bake house with mysterious drops of water covering your face." The barber muttered sarcastically, and he heard the rustling of Susan's dress as she turned to face him.

"Ain't pitch black at all, you daft man. I can see easy."

"Bully for you." Sweeney murmured almost under his breath, closing his eyes in preparation for what would follow.

"You look a mess."

"Thank you."

"…Why are you back?"

Sweeney sighed at her blatant persistence, and opened one eye – actually being able to define things a little clearer now, he decided to open the other as well, and took in the rough outline that was Susan. Slowly, he captured her chin in one hand, and pulled her towards him a little, before crushing their lips together. It only took a moment for her to react and put one arm around his neck, her fingers becoming entangled in his thick black hair, and his other arm went to her waist, pulling her even closer. Sweeney had meant for it to be shallow, for dramatization more than anything, but when Susan ran her tongue across his lips, he decided not to cut the action short.

When they finally separated, Sweeney gave Susan a smirk he knew she could see, and ran a finger down the back of her neck in a way sure to make her give a small shiver of pleasure.

"I came to see my wife, love." He murmured in her ear.

* * *

_A/N: Uh, yeah, I'm putting another AN down here because I need you loyal reviewers to give me a little advice. I'm considering putting a sex scene of some sort in the near future (next two to four chapters), but I know some people don't like reading that kind of thing. So if you're opposed to that, drop me a hint. Also, if I DO put a smut scene in, it will be the first I've ever written, so it might not be much good._

_Also, I will give a chocolate chip cookie to anyone who can correctly tell me the symbolism of twenty white roses _


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